


I'll Hold My Breath

by baekyall



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Forbidden Love, M/M, Prince/Servant AU, Romance, Sick Character, also i promise they'll eventually kiss just...give me 10k more to do it. thanks, eventual happiness i promise, infidelity for chanbaek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-10-12 08:22:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 22,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20561213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baekyall/pseuds/baekyall
Summary: Baekhyun, a sickly, spoiled crown prince. Chanyeol, his food taster and reluctant servant. Health fails and hearts intertwine as Baekhyun strives to be a great ruler, his most beloved commoner by his side through it all.





	1. 1/2

**Author's Note:**

> hehe i'm posting this first half now but i am ... almost done with the 2nd half so give me like a week tops ok! hold me on that! if I don't post it by next sunday you have permission to beat me up physically and emotionally. ok bye love yall!

The spices used in this dish aren’t to Chanyeol’s liking, that’s for sure -- but there is no lingering, threatening scent and no sweet sting crawling down his throat, so he nods to the servant standing before him.

“It’s safe. Wine?” 

“Not tonight, sir. The prince’s head has been bothering him today, and he fears it’ll only worsen.” 

“Water, then?” 

The servant stays silent, eyes flitting back to the kitchen, clearly unsure of the answer. 

“With the current flooding and hot weather, I’m not confident with the cleanliness of the water -- we boiled some for him, though it’s still warm, and you know how he dislikes anything but cold. Alcohol is usually safer, after all, though the prince refuses to drink any.” 

Chanyeol wants to be angry, for he knows that the prince’s headache will persist no matter what he drinks, that it will plague him as long as he bears the weight of the crown. But he’s not allowed to be angry, not outwardly, so he gives the servant a tight-lipped smile and taps two long fingers on the tray of food held between them.

“He will go without drink, then. You can tell him it was my order if he tries to be rude with you.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

The servant is gone only a moment later, scampering off toward the dining hall, where crown prince Baekhyun sits waiting for his dinner. The sun has only barely set, and Chanyeol fantasizes about getting lost in the forest far across the grounds of the palace, a horse by his side and no responsibilities lingering over him. For a moment his world is peaceful, tinted the golden color of the sun, but then he can hear the prince’s voice echoing off the stone walls, the tapestries inside doing little to shield his ears from that familiar shrill. 

_“I want him here, now.” _

Without doubt, _him_ is Chanyeol -- this is a rather regular occurrence after all; the prince will stop at nothing to annoy those under him and impede Chanyeol’s duty, to compromise his own safety in order to complain about the food or drink set in front of him. 

Chanyeol takes two strides and he’s in front of the large wooden doors, a forced smiling greeting the servant whose head pops out from the gap -- the servant smiles back, bashfully, and it’s understood that Chanyeol will be Baekhyun’s target tonight. 

“Your highness,” he’s in the dining hall now, head bowed down out of respect, though he doesn’t really need to see the prince seated before him -- he knows what to expect. Long black hair, silky and tied back with fine string; a thin face and eyes that watch his every move intensely, dark and consuming. 

“Chanyeol,” his voice is exasperated, raw with a type of exhaustion that Chanyeol could never understand. Too many expectations and hopes, too little energy to do it all -- a frail body and an overactive mind. “Why do you wish for me to dehydrate and die?”

“I wish nothing of the sort. The water is not fit for a prince at the moment -- it is more dangerous than a worsening headache, I fear.” 

His face contorts, obviously unhappy with this explanation, and Chanyeol watches his fingers tap impatiently on the surface of the table, tiny wrists drowning in his robe at the movement. 

“You are not a physician. You taste for poison, and that is _all_ you do. Shall I call the royal physician? Shall I call my guards? Shall I call for my father?” 

“If I allowed you to drink that water, I would be unfit for my job. Poison is not the only thing I protect you from, your highness.” 

Baekhyun smiles at him -- and though it’s mocking, Chanyeol still prefers this grin to a stoic glare, to his usual frustrated scowl. 

“Jongin is still recovering from a sword wound at the moment. Protecting me is _his_ job,” he points to his shoulder, and Chanyeol is acutely aware that a knife grazed him there only last week, that he’d woken up bleeding with his bodyguard dueling in the corner of his room, violent acts blurred by the nighttime but still vivid in the prince’s mind. Chanyeol had heard his screaming that night -- it’d startled him awake all the way down in the servants quarters. The next day he listened in on the maidservants as they whispered stories of the tears Baekhyun had shed, about how shaken he’d been. Though no one else seems to think so, Chanyeol believes he’d cried for Jongin’s health. 

“_You_ taste my food and, if you’re unlucky, die -- not the same thing, I’m afraid.” 

It’s a rather cruel thing to say, but Chanyeol is used to it, numb to the anger Baekhyun harbors for everyone, still seeing only the frightened little boy he’d been when they’d first met. 

“Please, your highness,” somewhere behind that vibrant anger and loud voice, Chanyeol knows there is someone who listens to him, no matter how unwillingly it may be done. “It is for your health.”

The crown prince has been sickly as long as Chanyeol’s known him -- Baekhyun was a sour-faced child who blossomed into a petulant young man, shoulders weighed down by royal robes and ailments. They’d grown together in this palace, but with Chanyeol toddling after his father in the kitchen and Baekhyun on a throne, there were too many layers of formality between them -- too much happening for Chanyeol to keep up with the prince’s declining health, increasing assassination attempts, and impending reign. 

Only now, after his father’s death and recent appointment as a food taster, does Chanyeol see the crown prince regularly -- though he can’t say he’s thrilled with the circumstances. The twentieth year in the Byun regency has not been kind to him. 

“Have some wine with dinner, and I will personally visit the royal physician to get you something for your head so you may sleep tonight.” 

Baekhyun’s gaze has drifted back to the food in front of him, filled with some sort of shame, brimming with an emotion Chanyeol has never been able to place, never allowed himself to decipher.

Though Baekhyun possesses all the wealth and grace of a well-bred prince, his attitude has always been downcast, his friendliness masked by suspicion, his obvious beauty smothered by frowns and a whiny tone. Now this voice is pointed at Chanyeol, never wavering in volume but dragging considerably into downtrodden territory. 

“Wine will have to do.” 

Chanyeol bows to his prince -- the only prince in his entire kingdom, the prince who cries for the physician in the middle of the night regularly, the prince who fights tooth and nail over any aspect of his life, if only to grasp for some control. He hears his shaky breathing even from this distance, knows that he’s struggling to fight with Chanyeol as much as he has, that he’s too tired to fuss over drinks anymore.

“Thank you, your highness. I will inform the kitchen.” 

And then he leaves to taste the wine, uncertain if he’ll be alive to complete his promised trip to the physician’s after he’s done drinking. 

\--

The prince’s bodyguard had always been kind to him despite his much lower status in the palace, their shared purpose of protecting Baekhyun and their wish to flee it all the forefront of every conversation, both men fascinated with odd little prince in their care and how to escape him. 

From the stories Jongin tells him, Chanyeol thinks he and Baekhyun could’ve been friends in a different life -- they would be close, he’s sure, in one where they were born in the same class, one where Baekhyun could run freely without fear of his lungs seizing or head spinning -- one where Baekhyun could smile at him genuinely, letting his pretty features drown out all the trouble he’d caused Chanyeol in this lifetime. 

Instead, he hopes to live to the next day, aware that he serves only one purpose in this palace, and watches Baekhyun’s bratty outbursts from the other side of the great dining table. 

Today Jongin is doing much better; Chanyeol is relieved beyond words. He sits up to sip some of the soup Chanyeol carried in, cheeks pink with fever and lips turned down in a forlorn expression. 

“Luckily it wasn’t any higher,” Chanyeol tries to stay positive, even as Jongin looks at his bandaged abdomen dejectedly, wincing when he adjusts his sitting position slightly.

“Between my body feeling as though it was on fire and the prince panicking behind me, I did what I shouldn’t have. Now we cannot know much more about the attempt. I failed miserably.” 

Even Chanyeol knows that killing an assassin isn’t the desired decision from a personal guard, as they’re much more useful after they’ve been tortured and imprisoned for information, but he doesn’t have it in him to be disappointed in Jongin. 

“That night, it woke me up -- his screaming,” they make eye contact and share a poignant moment, one that only men pledged to protect someone with their life could, and Chanyeol continues, “I would have done the same.” 

“I should have taken both injuries. The crown prince is hurt, and I killed someone I should have captured. I am not sure I deserve my position when I recover.” 

Chanyeol shakes his head, looking at Jongin’s wide frame on this tiny cot, sat up like a child and resting on his behind -- he looks sorry for his mistake, looks as though he’ll never forgive himself for what happened. 

“You’ve never dealt with that situation before, do not be so harsh on yourself,” he places a gentle hand on Jongin’s shoulder, hoping there’s no harm done with his simple action. “Trust me, I would have no idea what to do if his food was actually poisoned.” 

It’s a joke, and Jongin laughs along, but there’s a part of him that knows the answer: _you die_. He doesn’t think about it again. 

\--

There is a man stood next to the crown prince’s chair, face unreadable and body perfectly perpendicular with the floor. _Odd_, Chanyeol’s mind chants it over and over, a fearful buzz playing in his ears. _This is so odd. I should call for Jongin. _

The unfamiliar man looks through him rather than at him, and Chanyeol studies the new face with silent fascination, trying his best to look as though he’s not memorizing his features and height -- clearly he is just curious, not on edge by the presence of a stranger at the table, not overthinking every possible danger he could pose. 

Baekhyun doesn’t seem to think it’s necessary he introduce the man by his side, but from his stiff shoulders and tight lips, Chanyeol can tell the prince isn’t very familiar with this man either, and he decides to speak up rather than wait for Baekhyun to fill the silence. 

“Your highness, you called for me?” 

Baekhyun feigns surprise, dark eyes lighting up in faux joy, and he rests his sharp chin in the palm of his hand -- Chanyeol counts the bracelets that line his arm, disregarding the stranger for a moment to study the creature in front of him. 

“Oh, you’ve arrived,” now he’s sitting up straight in his chair, waving a delicate hand toward the man next to him, letting his pointer finger rest on the man’s forearm for a moment too long, dangerously close to the scabbard at his hip. “This is my new guard, Yixing -- he will be looking after me while Jongin is recovering.” 

“Thank you for your work, sir,” Chanyeol bows immediately, realizing his misunderstanding completely.

He hates the smile on Baekhyun’s face when he straightens again -- there has never been such joy in his eyes like this moment, not since they were small and Chanyeol had watched him giggle in the eastern courtyard, full of jealousy for his lavish relaxation. 

“This is Chanyeol, my food taster. He’s a rather lucky boy, isn’t he? Still alive, after all. Somehow.”

Baekhyun’s lips are pressed together and the apples of his cheeks are full, so full that Chanyeol almost wants to smile along, even if the comment was made at his expense. The prince is so captivating when he is at peace, so pretty when he teases Chanyeol rather than argues with him. 

“I have decided that he has another purpose for me.” 

Chanyeol stills -- he hadn’t been aware of any duties aside from the ones he currently occupies. Baekhyun’s face is thin and pale and aggravating once again, the enchantment of his smile gone as Chanyeol realizes he’s being made fun of completely, that he’s being used in some way or another -- Jongin had told him tales of Baekhyun’s cruel jokes, of the anger that bubbles under his surface at all times, of the way he plays with people. 

“And what would that be, your highness?”

  
“I am a particular person. Jongin knows me well, but Yixing does not. I cannot spend all my time with someone who will not take care of me. You will balance him out -- you have no duties except my mealtimes, isn’t that right? You will be my servant.” 

Growing up with a palace cook for a father and spending each waking moment surrounded by servants and maids and cooks, this shouldn’t sting the way it does, for he knows just how hard they work, just how much effort everyone puts into the upkeep of this magnificent palace and its grounds. But Baekhyun’s voice had made it seem like a bad thing to be, especially the way he’d pronounced _my_ \-- with conviction only an entitled prince could manage to possess. 

“You wish for me to be your personal servant, your highness?” 

“I do not _wish you_ to be anything. It is a royal order. You_ will_ take care of me, as you know my needs, unlike this stranger. You will continue your food testing, but you will also make sure I am pleased and healthy. I simply cannot stand to be mistreated in my own palace, yet my father gives me a guard I have never met, who has no idea of my interests or current health.” 

There is no other answer for the tallest boy other than yes, though he dreads thinking it, much less saying it -- there are no limits to Baekhyun’s whines and no telling when he will fall ill again, too feeble to do much other than glare at his servant, to pick fights with the food taster in order to pass the time. 

“I would be honored to serve your highness as you so wish.” 

Baekhyun’s smile is gone, and so is Yixing; he’s shooed him back away from the table, toward the wall, a stranger blending in amongst the tapestries. Chanyeol looks at the one hanging above him, a tiger stood tall against the trees, birds fleeing to the sky in a hurried moment of panic. He and Yixing might just be the birds in this moment, and Baekhyun is their tiger -- he is a pitiful cub playing games and sulking no matter the result of the hunt. 

“Very well.”

The petulant boy is resurfacing, disappointed with some part of this entire scheme, eyes jumping from place to place on Chanyeol’s face with confusion. 

“We are off to the courtyard then.”

  
Chanyeol follows his prince’s shaky footsteps across the hall and into the suffocating air of summer. 

\--

Two days later they sit in the palace library, the smell of paper and ink only intensified by the warmth that infuses the air, by the humidity that coats their skin. Baekhyun insists on leaving the windows completely open, even as Chanyeol watches a drop of sweat trickle down the outer curve of his ear, slow as a nearly-stagnant pond. 

The drop falls onto his emerald shoulder and blends in with the tendrils of black hair that rest there, and, sadly, Chanyeol thinks watching this occur is the most entertainment he can have at the moment. Another blast of warm air dances across his forehead, and he feasts on Baekhyun’s blank expression and unnatural quietness.

Chanyeol hadn’t been allowed to read along with the prince, only to sit and observe, to wait for his next order -- mostly, he waits for Baekhyun to grow bored. But to Chanyeol’s dismay, the crown prince seems utterly enthralled with the papers lined before him. It’s off putting to see Baekhyun sit still for such a long time, no change in his expression, no high-pitched whine in his voice. 

A book is closed slowly, and Chanyeol wonders if ink has fallen on his thumb, or if it’s a mole that takes residence above the curve of his nail -- he wonders lots of things of this nature, for he has nothing better to do. The small prince’s demands and complaints are frequent, but not as frequent as he’d first expected. 

The wind makes a page flutter next to the prince’s left elbow, and Chanyeol closes his eyes for a moment against the sound, suddenly feeling overly sleepy and peaceful.

“Where is he?” Baekhyun asks, not moving his eyes from the pages in front of him. It startles Chanyeol from his sitting position across the low table -- he’d been convinced the prince was in some sort of a literary trance, but now his sharp eyes are cutting through Chanyeol’s windpipe, leaving him scrambling to respond. 

“Who?” 

“My guard,” Baekhyun’s voice is as agitated as the glare he gives Chanyeol, brimming with an unbridled annoyance he hadn’t expected in this peaceful moment. “You do not know? I am sitting here, unprotected, and my personal servant has done nothing to secure me?” 

“Your guard is around the corner.” 

_You ordered him to get out of your sight thirty minutes ago_, Chanyeol wants to add, but there is ice in Baekhyun’s stare and a tremor in his hand, so he stays quiet. 

"He can hear our conversation?" 

Chanyeol has no idea, but the prince seems to expect an immediate answer, frown pinching his lips together once again, distorting the pretty features of his pointed face. His earlier expression had been a beam of sunshine bursting through the clouds he’s always covered in, and Chanyeol wishes for him to relax once more. 

"I suppose so, your highness," it falls quiet for a beat, both of them melting back into the summer heat that pervades the library, basking in the sunshine that fans over the prince's back and dances across Chanyeol's face. "Would you like me to call for him?" 

“Absolutely not. I was just curious as to where my shadow had gone.” 

He returns to reading then, and Chanyeol prepares himself to relax fully, to study a new feature of the prince, to memorize the number of yellow flowers on the painting behind him -- though it’s difficult. The crown prince is no longer in the trance as he was before, and there is no glazed eyes and parted lips to watch, only a pained expression that he tries desperately to conceal. Maybe he should call for Yixing after all -- it must be time to retire to his chambers, to rest again before dinner. 

He has been the prince’s personal servant for so little time, but he knows Baekhyun rather well, knows that he will be defensive and angry if his illness is brought up. The prince pushes loose strands of hair past his shoulders, huffing the entire time, and resumes his fitful attempt at focusing once again. Chanyeol hurts along with him, uncomfortable with the situation, scared to let the prince push himself too far -- scared to speak up and risk Baekhyun’s embarrassed fury. 

“What are you reading, your highness? You seem very invested in the outcome.” 

He doesn’t know the prince’s limits yet, only knows that there is a line of fatigue he must not let him tread -- hearing his voice will help decipher his current state. 

“What does it matter?” Baekhyun’s words shake along with his head, ornaments on his shoulders catching the sunlight as they hadn’t before. “I am invested in the outcome of any situation or story, as any future king should be.” 

Chanyeol has never made eye contact with the prince like this, not from only a few feet away, both sat at a low table in this burning light. The crown prince’s eyes are darker than any water he’s ever seen, and perhaps deeper too; he shivers and sucks in a warm breath. 

“I meant no offense, your highness, I just wondered whether it was a legal document or an adventurous tale,” at this, Baekhyun’s eyebrows quirk up, curiosity peaking -- Chanyeol can’t sense anything malicious lurking behind the expression. “I believe you have the capacity to be fascinated with both, as any future king should be.” 

“Ah, I understand now. You assume that I read adventurous stories because I am sick and cannot go on a quest of my own? Do you think tales are my way of compensating, of escaping this palace for a world where my body functions well? You wish for me to divulge my reading material as if you are someone who deserves to know?” 

Chanyeol doesn’t dare move. 

“I am not to be pitied by a servant. I am angry and spiteful and abrasive because I _must_ be as the future ruler of this kingdom,” Baekhyun’s voice is as harsh as ever, the peaceful boy in the library abandoned for his usual demeanor, cheeks flaming. “My future is worth more than any tale you will ever read, Chanyeol.”

“I apologize, your highness. Please forgive me.” 

He bows as low as he can without disturbing the table they share, listening to Baekhyun’s ragged breathing calm as the seconds pass in the stifled warmth of the library. He wonders if Yixing is astounded by their conversation, or if the guard has grown used to it by now. 

When Baekhyun’s hand touches the surface of the table with a resounding thud, Chanyeol lifts his head once again, the sunlight and Baekhyun’s obsidian eyes blinding him. 

“Do not underestimate me, and do not think we’re on the same level of conversation. I do not long for you to be my friend.” 

They don’t speak for the remainder of the afternoon, and as Chanyeol watches the twitch in his eye worsen and the pink on his cheeks darken, he wishes he could believe the prince’s words. 

\-- 

He retches for the third time, nearly light-headed with the nausea this scent brings him. It’s sickly sweet, so overpowering and saccharine that his sinuses and throat feel clogged, that it seems as though he might drown in the perfume’s atmosphere. 

“Breathe slowly,” the physician is kind, almost fatherly, and Chanyeol smiles through the melting of his mind. “I will show you the antidote.” 

Poison has been on his mind for months, though usually only in the circumstances that he wishes to avoid it at all costs, that he prays for a clean plate and cup with each meal the crown prince must eat. His duty had always been to eat first, be thankful later -- never had he been trained properly on detecting poisons, only a body to harbor them in the prince’s stead. 

Now, however, he has thrown himself into the lion’s den, asking the royal physician to familiarize him with common poisons and their antidotes. 

With his new position in the palace and his frequent audience with Baekhyun, Chanyeol feels as though he must improve his skills, must not look like a fool in front of the new guard -- must not disgrace his father by allowing himself or the prince to be harmed. 

“Here it is. Memorize the color.” 

The antidote in front of him is small and red -- far too small to reach each limb on a human’s body quickly enough to save them. Too small of a vial to share, Chanyeol fears.

He doesn’t like how the thought makes his fingers shake, how he pictures himself on the floor of the dining hall, writhing in pain while Baekhyun watches, unbothered. Then the antidote is replaced with the poison he’d just ingested; it’s forced under his nose once again, assaulting and paralyzing and familiar. 

The vial reeks of something dank and musty, filled to the brim with a concoction that smells of a swamp, that reeks of impending death. 

“That’s horrendous.” 

“Rather easy to detect, though. Always smell before you eat, in case the assassin is foolish enough to use conspicuous poison.”

Chanyeol continues on his tour of the physician’s collection, head spinning with colors and scents, with his knowledgeable words -- it seems to Chanyeol that he will never be able to fully wrap his head around it all, but he wants to try. 

“With many poisons, you can build a small tolerance, if you’re willing to ingest them in small doses periodically,” there is only silence, this fact slightly overwhelming to the younger man. “Though it is a method practiced by royal guards and training physicians, far too much to ask of a food taster -- I would not expect you to put yourself through that.”

Chanyeol nods, uncertain. 

“It is weeks of suffering and toil, and I am sure you hope to move up in the kitchen staff before long. It should prove a painful waste, after all.” 

A cook for the palace, respected and well taken care of for the foreseeable future, sounds much better than food taster, than personal servant to the crown prince; within the year, he had hoped to be away from both positions and into a life free of needy voices and harsh insults.

Unexpectedly, his mind supplies the image of Jongin’s face going pale, red staining his chest and hands -- he remembers Baekhyun’s frightened screams in the dead of night, of the weary pain that mars his youthful face each day. He can’t convince himself to say no to the proposition.

“I will do whatever I can to complete my duties to the best of my ability,” the physician nods along gently, weathered hands passing Chanyeol something new to examine. “If only for selfish reasons.” 

He breathes the flask of lilac liquid too harshly, a soapy, citrus smell eliciting a harsh cough from deep in his chest. His nose itches.

“Oh,” he says, voice retreating to the uncomfortable tone he’d used to remark about all the poisons before. “That one is sharper than the rest. More lethal, I suppose?”

The royal physician chuckles slightly, wiser than Chanyeol in a myriad of ways, made acutely obvious by the humor resting in his eyes.

“I cannot help you build a tolerance to that perfume oil in your hand, sadly.” 

\--

The prince sleeps as though there is nothing going on around him, as if the summer sun doesn’t attack the right side of his face with every second he lays in it -- Chanyeol stands over him in an attempt to shade his figure. It’s not hard, as he’s rather skinny and curled in on himself at the moment, back flat against a tree in the courtyard, another flower among the many that line this part of the palace. 

But Chanyeol knows he can’t stand here for the hours that Baekhyun needs to rest, can’t shield him from the warmth that threatens to steal away his breath.

It’s nearing dusk, and Baekhyun had been dozing for only a few minutes before the taller noticed his wavering head, the droop in his eyelids, the slouch in his shoulders. _Exhausted,_ Chanyeol’s mind whispers to him, _he’s exhausted from the meetings this morning. _

He needs to cool him down and remove the sun’s glare from his skin -- Baekhyun cannot stay in this heat for too long, even as the sun sets behind them all, for it only exacerbates his headaches and makes his knees wobble. 

“Yixing,” Chanyeol says it as quietly as he possibly can, refraining from waking the prince at all costs. “A parasol?” 

A beat passes and Yixing responds negatively, his head shaking in time with the grass blades that tickle Baekhyun’s ankles.

They stay silent, only a few feet apart, both staring at the prince in front of them -- he is finally quiet after an entire day of snarky words and angry stomping from room to room. During lunch, Baekhyun had refused to drink his tea despite Chanyeol’s assurance, eyes narrowing and voice lowering with an accusatory, “_He probably wants me dead, too.” _

The meetings hadn’t gone well, Chanyeol inferred. 

“He must be taken back to his chamber for the night -- dinner will have to be forgone, unless he specifically asks for it. It’s too hot to rest here.” 

He looks at Yixing for a moment too long -- there is hesitation in the shorter’s eyes, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of being yelled at by the prince for waking him, far too new in his position to push the rather strict limits Baekhyun upholds. Had it been Jongin, there would be no problems -- that boy feared only death, and he’d outsmarted it before. 

When Chanyeol takes a step toward the small prince and kneels down, it’s understood that he will be the one to wake him gently, that he will take any and all blame for any anger resulting from it.

“Your highness,” he whispers softly, as lightly as the breeze that dances through the prince’s long hair and courts the blossoms around him. “Your highness, it’s better if you wake up.” 

It happens too quickly. 

Baekhyun’s large, thin hand is splayed across his chest, and now the back of Chanyeol’s head is laying in the dirt -- he’s been pushed down violently, easily. There are legs straddling his own, heavier than he’d expected from the sickly crown prince, and they’re too warm against his hips, an uncomfortable pain spreading down to his ankles. The prince’s face isn’t close, but Chanyeol can still feel the older’s heavy breath on his cheeks, can feel the tip of a dagger pressing into his neck.

Those dark eyes are blacker than he’s ever seen them, a dreadful glaze covering them; Chanyeol stares at him, scarcely breathing, and sees a man gone feral. And when he sputters and lashes away against the sudden attack from the prince, he feels a drop of warmth slink down his neck and land in the dirt -- soon the thick liquid is pooling around his head, a red stream licking at his ears and hair. 

The crown prince has cut his neck -- fatally or not, he can’t be sure, because Yixing won’t _help_ _him _get free to check. No matter the situation, he is loyal to the prince only, even as Chanyeol lay bleeding in the dirt. 

He’s choking on his own blood and drowning in Baekhyun’s face of terror -- pulled under by the noises the shorter screams from on top of him, each one more strangled and scared and deafening than the last. 

Suddenly, he can breathe; Baekhyun is off of him, hands desperately clawing at the dirt to the left side of his injured servant, eyes blown wide and body visibly trembling. 

There is something wrong with him, and it’s so clear to Chanyeol, he knows it well -- understands that an intense fever had taken control of him in his dreams, that he’s hardly lucid and as paranoid as ever, fueled by fear and trampled by guilt. 

“Royal physician,” Chanyeol chokes the words out, hand clamped over his neck to stop the bleeding as best he can, eyes boring into Baekhyun’s teary ones. “Get the physician.”  
\--

Each time he tries to enter the prince’s chambers to perform his job, he’s denied access -- Baekhyun is being fed only medicinal soup and tonics in the few moments he’s awake, leaving Chanyeol without a glimpse of the ailing prince for far too long. He would normally rejoice at this freedom, at the prospect of a break from Baekhyun’s words and eyes, but the bandage around his neck bothers him with each breath, keeps him aware of what’s missing from his immediate view. 

The palace feels rather empty without an echoing voice in his ear, he realizes. 

With each attempt comes another disappointment, the royal physician’s words a clear rejection, the guards glares an obvious warning to leave, but Chanyeol can’t stop thinking of the violence Baekhyun had displayed, of the shock in his eyes when he realized what he’d done -- when it dawned on him who he’d hurt. 

He wants to make it better. 

On the third day of the crown prince’s unending fever, Chanyeol sits on the cold stone lining of a large pond -- it is only a few steps from Baekhyun’s chambers -- and stares into the trees and sky for as long as he can bear, if only for the hope that he will wake before long. 

In the crown prince’s pavilion, the flowers grow freely, and the prince has requested for the trees to tower, for their branches to rarely be taken care of -- it is a false forest.

However fake they may be, the manufactured rivers and ponds flow serenely, and birds still flock as though it is a hidden oasis in the palace’s grounds. The peace that invades Chanyeol’s heart and settles there is anything but an imitation. He swallows thickly against his minor wound, ears tuned and waiting for the familiar tone of the crown prince’s voice, of his gasping breath and defiant insults. 

It takes hours, but he hears something he recognizes finally -- finally -- as the sun sets over Chanyeol’s tired figure, as the fish swim in circles for the nth time that day, as the sweltering heat is soothed with the cold wind of evening. 

Baekhyun is crying fitfully, voice raised and unashamed -- though Chanyeol knows it will only last until the agony is done, and then the responsibility of being a strong, stoic leader will smother him into a quieter pain. 

He listens to the prince’s wails, recognizes the physician’s soothing words, even registers Yixing’s voice join the cacophony. This day is misery, if the whimpers and softening sobs are any indication. 

Within minutes the illusionary forest has gone dark and silent, and Chanyeol aches along with his prince.

\--

The next day, he makes his way to the prince’s pavilion as early as he can, tiptoeing along the path in the cool morning air. He bears a bundle of gifts for Baekhyun in his left hand, tied with his best silk cloth -- dyed violet, years ago. 

The guards greet him with hardened eyes, annoyed at his persistence, angered with this servant who has the audacity to suggest he deserves audience with the crown prince at a time like this. They aren’t much taller than Chanyeol, though they’re all much wider, and much more talented with weapons, he admits -- there is no way to get in besides being granted entrance. 

“The king has not even come to visit yet,” the guard’s voice is gruff, rude. Chanyeol misses Yixing’s quiet intimidation, oddly enough. “I am not to let any visitors in until his majesty has said his piece.” 

There is still no sun in the sky, only a shimmering mosaic of pinks and purples, and it reminds him of the weight in his hand, of the treasures this violet cloth holds -- he raises it to the guard’s eye level proudly. 

“The fever has broken, yes? He will be allowed to eat this morning, and he _must_. I am his personal servant and food taster. I have brought some from the kitchen. It is my duty.” 

Victory is near, he senses. 

“Be quick. His energy is not yours to waste.” 

Walking into the prince’s private chambers is nothing like the times before -- the nights he’d escorted him here after dinner, the mornings Baekhyun had been too weak to get out of bed and needed his breakfast delivered -- it differs because, for the first time, Chanyeol is eager to arrive. 

Eager to see Baekhyun aware of his surroundings once again, eager to see if the guilt from the days before is present today, eager to peek at the relaxed features he hides so resolutely -- Chanyeol cannot be certain which leads him further into the prince’s quarters. But he _is_ eager, granting a tiny bow to each guard he passes on the way to the prince’s sleeping room. 

It’s as lavish as it’s always been, emeralds and jade encasing and decorating every possible surface, an opportunity for the royal Byun family to showcase their wealth to anyone who enters. The floor is cold and slick under his shoes, well polished and expensive, only the best for the crown prince and his guests. 

He nears the last divider, knowing that behind these curtains and thick paper doors, there is the man who uses him with no remorse -- there is a man who gaped at him with horrified eyes, shocked by the sight of blood he’d drawn, driven mad with the sight of Chanyeol’s seizing form on the ground beneath him. 

“You cannot keep me here against my will. I will have you replaced in an instant, I promise you.” 

There it is -- Baekhyun’s voice, shrill and exasperated, obviously exhausted, yet filled with the same fire as always. 

“Your highness, I have been told to not let you up until the afternoon, as you’re still very weak --” Baekhyun interrupts Yixing with a teasing laugh, disbelief made clear. “They say you nearly died, that your pulse dropped far too low. Rest is of the utmost importance, your highness.” 

Chanyeol makes his presence known now, pushing the sliding door aside and bowing fully to the two men in the room. He ignores the sharp breath they both take, ignores the way his heart hammers in his ears from the conversation he’d overheard, from the realization that Baekhyun’s sickly disposition entails more than just headaches and dizzy spells.

“Your highness, I bring breakfast,” he fears looking up to meet his gaze. 

He’d known him as an ailing prince, yes -- weaker than others and plagued with migraines -- but never standing toe to toe with death, never a prince with a pulse that threatens to fade. It shakes him.

“Tested for poison, I presume?” Baekhyun’s voice is humorless, as dry as ever, and it comforts Chanyeol in some odd way. “I have no drink again.” 

He means to apologize to the prince immediately, but the words catch in his throat at his ashen cheeks and dry lips, at the way his pretty hair frizzes against his scalp, made messy by days of sweat and bedrest. He is a sliver of the graceful prince of days past, barely there, royal air maintained only by the proud look on his face, by the unwavering eyes that meet Chanyeol’s. 

“Yes, your highness, I ate a bite of each before I left the kitchens. I apologize for the lack of drink, though I see a teapot on the floor, perhaps I could request the physician to brew you something --” 

“Do not bother. Give me my food.” 

And he kneels next to the bed, untying the violet cloth and placing each side dish on a tray carefully. There is more waiting to be unpacked, though Chanyeol is too nervous to show his gifts so suddenly, so he covers the pile with the cloth once again. 

His hands tremble as he does it, fingers shaking as he places the tray over the crown prince’s lap -- Baekhyun focuses on it, staying silent. 

“Eat well, your highness.” 

“I will, once you tell me what else is hidden in that cloth,” the prince’s face is even thinner than before, and Chanyeol loses his focus looking at the line of his jaw, worry sprouting in his mind, world spinning at the question. “I would like to hope it is not a weapon. Yixing will have to finish my job and behead you if it is.” 

Chanyeol’s forehead is touching the ground. His hands are flat against the cold floor, and he can feel his own panicked heart igniting his bloodstream, can hear nothing but the prince’s screams from the night before ringing through his head. This bow may be his last -- he hopes for understanding, for mercy, for a lucid mind judging him.

“They are only books, your highness. I swear on my life. I thought you would like to keep your mind occupied with them. I know you are fond of reading, your highness -- I meant no harm.” 

There’s a soft clanking from above him, the familiar sound of a spoon hitting the side of a bowl, and the sharp prick of Baekhyun’s eyes on him is gone -- the back of Chanyeol’s neck can sense the glare relenting. 

“I hope they are tales of adventure,” the prince doesn’t look at him, even as he lifts his head cautiously, taking in the scene in front of him -- Baekhyun eating rather well, cheeks full with much-needed nourishment, face drenched in foreign relaxation. “I heard some common folk find them entertaining.” 

\--

Jongin bests him easily, even as his slowly-healing abdomen impedes his usual sharp movements and perfected sword techniques, making him a slightly clumsier version of a royal palace guard. But the injury doesn’t affect his ability to disarm Chanyeol in mere seconds, his blade raising to Chanyeol’s height and staying there, steady hands keeping any real threat at bay. 

“Defeated once again,” he sighs outwardly, and Jongin grins at him, dazzling. He seems quite pleased to be back on his feet, sparring and interacting with another, even if Chanyeol’s abilities are that of a child in his eyes. “I fear I’ll never last more than a few seconds against you in a duel.”  
Jongin laughs, his hair shaking in its low ponytail and broad shoulders following suit. He’s doing much better, though Chanyeol still sees his hidden grimaces, can hear the groans he attempts to stifle. 

“You expect to defeat the crown prince’s personal guard?” 

The taller had come to Jongin wishing to be taught basic defense, to learn protective moves in case Yixing is too far away in a moment of panic or emergency. His and the prince’s safety had been bothering him until now, a relentless nagging in the back of his mind warning of Baekhyun’s illness and the fatigue it brings, of the dagger that he hides somewhere in his robes. 

“I never expected to win,” he steps back, away from the blade of the sword, letting Jongin rest and lower his arm. “I’d only hoped.” 

There is a sad frustration that settles in the back of Chanyeol’s throat, slightly angry at the prospect of being untalented at something that Jongin accomplishes simply -- swordsmanship is a skill that seems almost natural to others. 

“You are_ foolish_ but so eager to learn. I want to tell you to stop trying, especially with how uncoordinated your long arms are,” Jongin mimics him, elbows shaking as he makes a stabbing motion, feet pointing outward, bowlegged and unprepared to attack again. “But you are too charming to discourage. Perhaps that’s why Baekhyun keeps you around -- entertainment.”

Chanyeol lets himself laugh at the thought of the prince finding him charming or entertaining, for it’s far too silly to seem plausible. 

"He enjoys belittling me, yes, but he does that to everyone, no matter how foolish or sensible they appear to be." 

Jongin cannot argue with that, clearly, and he sheathes his sword once again, today’s miniature lesson and one-sided fights ending with a heavy sigh. Perhaps his abdomen is hurting him, or perhaps all this play and talk of the prince has made him too aware of his current idleness. 

“Yet you are still patient with him,” Jongin settles on the stone floor of this empty room gingerly, and the taller boy follows his movements, gently setting his borrowed sword next to his leg. “Which he needs. Desperately.” 

This silence is unlike the usual peaceful droop in conversation -- this time it is stifling, as all-consuming as the questions that boil to the surface of Chanyeol’s mind. He wants to know more about Baekhyun’s sickness, about the harsh front he wears, but he fears vocalizing it, fears Jongin’s response. 

“I have no choice but to be patient. He holds power over all of us. You are the same.” 

“You are even more foolish than I thought.” 

A beat passes, and the two men settle further into the floor, welcoming its cool stone as an escape from the summer that holds the palace captive. Chanyeol’s long finger traces along a crack in the gray rock, refusing to ask the questions that eat at his conscience, abstaining from requesting Jongin to clarify his words any further.  
“The royal court has hardly any interest in an ailing heir, and our king prefers he stay out of most affairs, despite his official role as crown prince. He is loud --” Jongin’s voice drops to a whisper, these words blasphemous even in the solitude of their training room. “He is a pain because it is the only way he feels seen. He annoys you because he longs for your kindness in return. Your patience outlasts most, and I have no doubt it played a factor in his choosing you.” 

Chanyeol swallows his shock easily -- the bandage on his neck is gone, only a faint scratch remaining from Baekhyun’s dagger attack. It’s a faint reminder of a vicious fever, of a wilting body overpowering his with only pure adrenaline, of crushed flowers and bloodied dirt scattered around them both. 

“Will he die? His sickness, will it kill him?” 

Jongin has joined him in tracing the natural patterns of the floor, in avoiding answering hard questions and asking difficult clarifications. The silence is enough of an answer for the taller man, and he stands once again, disheartened.

It is late afternoon now; Baekhyun will be waking up from his nap in only a few minutes, and Chanyeol recognizes it is nearing time for the prince’s daily cup of jasmine tea. 

“Thank you for sparring with me. I would love to try and fail at winning again someday,” he smiles, genuinely grateful, and Jongin tries his best to give one back. “Rest well.”

On the solemn walk to collect and taste the tea, Chanyeol thinks of a world without Baekhyun’s aggravating presence surrounding him -- nausea greets him willingly.

\--

The crown prince is acting strangely. 

There had been nothing different in their usual routine this morning -- grumbled annoyances from the prince, breakfast delivered by Chanyeol, sleepily dropping Baekhyun off for lessons, and picking him up from meetings with never a word exchanged.

But now the sun is high in the sky, nearing lunch, and Baekhyun’s eyes follow him as they tread their slow path back to his pavilion, gaze assessing him carefully. It puts him on edge, the heat of the prince’s unforgiving eyes and the sun beating down on his back at the same time rather overwhelming. There have been no comments or demands, only silence, each moment filled with their collective breathing and Yixing’s agile footsteps five feet behind. 

“Your meal will arrive as we do, I believe, your highness.”  
A soft noise of agreement floats across the wind in return. _It better be_, Baekhyun would’ve normally said, _I should not be made to wait in my own palace._

The heat must be melting the prince’s mind, he decides, walking further into Baekhyun’s version of a forest.

Broiling beef soup and warm rice greets the trio as they step inside the crown prince’s quarters. Chanyeol sniffs it first, as the royal physician had instructed, and takes a little for himself, rolling the spoonful around on his tongue until it starts to cool -- finally, he swallows. He waits an entire minute before stirring the rice and stealing a rather large bite for himself. 

Only after Baekhyun has sat at his table and began to look expectant of his meal does Chanyeol nod, pleased with the results -- clean. There are more side dishes to be tasted, but his attempts to try them are brought to a halt by Baekhyun’s voice, loud once again. 

“Sit and taste them.”

It is not an offer but a command, and Chanyeol stills in confusion. Everyone is staring, bewitched, at his shocked figure and the ridiculous request asked of him, at the novelty and horror of it all. No one sits with the crown prince unless they are of equal blood and, last time Chanyeol checked, he veins held only common blood and his mind understood only what a commoner could. 

“I couldn’t possibly --” 

“Sit and taste them. It was not a question.” 

“Yes, your highness,” he tries to be quick -- Baekhyun’s watching his every move, his every bite, and it makes his pulse spike. “I will test them quickly, as you must be very hungry.” 

The prince only watches on, hollow cheeks and dark eyes consuming Chanyeol’s focus in a powerful way. This is a position he should never be in, and yet he sits, a commoner level with the heir to the throne, sharing a table during mealtime. 

“Yixing, leave us.” 

Left is only the prince, his servant, and their hushed eye contact. Sunbeams dance off of jade statues behind Baekhyun, a glimmering green spectacle, almost as distracting as the tip of the prince’s tongue peeking out. Minutes pass with Chanyeol’s chewing the only movement, eyes trained to the floor as Baekhyun continues to watch him carefully, obviously interested in some part of the poison testing process, Chanyeol’s mouth, or both. 

“I have tasted everything, your highness,” he is too scared to look up and face the reality of this situation. “Allow me a few minutes to ensure that nothing happens, and then eat well.” 

“You may stay.” 

It almost sounds like a choice. 

“I may, your highness?” 

Baekhyun starts eating slowly, and Chanyeol is finally brave enough to look up, to watch his fingers wrap around his spoon, to see his eyelashes flutter as he sips the broth. He focuses on the prince’s prominent cheekbones and sharp jaw for too long, only stopping when worry has burrowed deep in his stomach. When he is this close, it becomes apparent that Baekhyun is far too thin for his height, and it scares him. 

Chanyeol uses a finger to push the bowl of rice even closer to the prince, a silent reminder to eat well, a tender thought he hadn’t meant to act upon. The shorter stops eating for a moment, completely still, and then his thin fingers push the remainder of his soup toward Chanyeol -- an offering, he thinks. It’s uncomfortable, the way this feels natural, the way his cheeks go scarlet at the sight.

He should refuse the offer; he should bow and beg the prince to forgive him for getting too comfortable and moving the rice in the first place. Instead he takes the soup with trembling fingers, tipping it back and drinking from the side of the bowl until it’s clean, feeling oddly proud of himself and his bravery. 

The shock of what he’s done comes quickly after, mortification and fear seizing him completely. In mere seconds Baekhyun will realize it too, will scream at him for being insolent and throw a fit, will pounce across the table and hold a dagger against his throat once again. 

“Your highness, may I get you anything else? I will ask for more soup, I apologize -- I should have never --” 

“If you wish to do something so badly, tell the kitchens to stop preparing me such large meals. It is entirely their fault that I’m forced to share with you. Tell your superiors _that_.” 

He goes silent, though his mind is louder than ever, confusion and discomfort and wonder eating him alive. Lunch passes in silence, Chanyeol eating only what Baekhyun’s fingertips offer him, mind entranced by the new sort of beauty proximity to the prince allows.

\--

He writhes, mind toppling over the edge of a large mountain -- he is falling toward a rocky sea, no doubt, but he cannot swim, cannot fathom the frigid temperature of the water or the depth that waits to swallow him whole. Limbs screaming for relief, he shakes against this water;_ not real_, he realizes too late, gasping in the thick summer air. All along the water was his own sweat, the rocks his own deluded fear. 

Everything hurts, and he fails to control the scream he lets out, forgets to move out of the way of his own vomit. 

“Lay on your side,” the voice is almost foreign to him, and he wishes he could recognize it -- he hopes it is his father. “Breathe, and try to sleep. It will fade by morning. I am here.”

Poison, he remembers vaguely -- he is drowning because of the poison.

The physician had warned it would be awful, maybe even excruciating, that he would feel as though his muscles were escaping his body unwillingly -- by ingesting that tiny vial of poison, he’d incited a coup on his own lungs and heart. 

And maybe he is dreaming, or maybe this burning pain and the freezing cold water cancel each other out -- either way, he is fading into a numb sleep, muscles relaxing against the fear that had once gripped him so tightly. 

\--

Something has changed, for Baekhyun rarely eats alone now, preferring Chanyeol’s silent company across from him. It is all unspoken, the way their hands dance around the other’s during mealtime, the way they sit almost comfortably together -- this new routine is something that Chanyeol prays the king will never discover. Every so often, Baekhyun’s stoic facade and a gentle smile peeks out when he particularly likes a dish, the prince rushing to appear indifferent once again, and Chanyeol understands that the prince wants their meals to be secret just as he does. 

Baekhyun listens to him now, still rather sullenly, but Chanyeol will take what he can get, will gladly accept the pretty eyes reading his lips as he speaks, even if the conversation is stunted and rarely reciprocated, just as it always has been.

The prince still complains loudly -- sometimes his head aches horribly, and sometimes there is no one here to fix the hole in the northwestern doorway even though it ripped more than five minutes ago -- and Chanyeol assures it will be taken care of, shading the prince from the sun and reminding him of the books he has yet to finish with careful words. Baekhyun aches, and Chanyeol soothes, time and time again. 

Jongin’s words come to mind each time Baekhyun lashes out, each time his words and face contort into something ragged, something crueler than he truly means, something Chanyeol has almost forgotten. 

_You are patient_, Jongin had told him. 

And patient he will continue to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!! 2nd part should be done soon! I promise I won't break all of your hearts ❤️
> 
> Any feedback is great, as I really like writing this and I'd be happy if it was fun to read, too!!!!! love you all! (also sorry for being gone for so long... i will be writing more frequently, pinky promise)
> 
> aff: baekyall  
twitter: baekyalls  
other: curiouscat.me/baekyall


	2. 2/2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me TOOOO long to finish. But life + family + school really exhausts you, huh? Enjoy!!!! (Hopefully) ❤️

They are headed to a formal meal today. Chanyeol understands faintly that there are acquaintances of the royal family visiting, that they bring entertainment, guests of their own, and stories of travel along with them. 

Yixing had whispered another truth to him that morning: they know little of Baekhyun’s health, and the prince intends to keep it that way, no matter how it exhausts him.

It’s frightening, the way Baekhyun has been so despondent with him despite his lack of fever, listless in every aspect of his personality, void of his usual fiery persona. Today he despises Baekhyun’s silence even more than his complaints and catty insults to anyone who gets in his way; today he wishes for the old Baekhyun to return, if only to remind him that he exists.

Chanyeol blames the prince’s sedate steps on the fatigue of entertaining guests, even as his mind screams _he should not attend, he is far too overworked; look at his weary face_. Speaking up is easier thought than done, however, and so he slows his pace to allow the prince and Yixing to catch up to him on the stone path. 

“Chanyeol?” 

Baekhyun says it like a name for the first time -- there is no command underlying, no insult waiting to be thrown -- and it hits the taller like a wave, sweeping him into confusion, a powerful current muddling his thoughts. 

He turns to look at the shorter hesitantly, entirely stopping their progression forward, an unconscious reaction to the prince’s voice turning pleasant unexpectedly. Baekhyun stares back at him -- his entire face is tinted pink from the heat, pretty and childlike for only a moment. Chanyeol worries even more. 

“Yes, your highness?” 

There is no immediate answer from the prince, and Chanyeol holds his breath, expectant, scared, electrified. Rather than a vocal expression of the stubborn anger the prince often exudes or the kindness that slips out periodically, Chanyeol’s strained ears only detect a soft rustling in the willow tree behind them -- the bird caws as it abandon its perch, and they both watch it soar overhead. 

With its departure comes an unsettling stillness around them. Both have taken notice, Baekhyun’s eyes drifting behind Chanyeol and searching for something, anything, before he shatters the peace with a slightly harsher tone, as if he suddenly realizes who stands before him. 

“You can ride a horse?” 

It is now that Chanyeol realizes their guard has slipped away on his own accord in these passing moments, considerate of the prince and his sudden informality -- Chanyeol is grateful for the privacy in more ways than he can process. 

“Not very well, your highness,” it is hard to be honest when the truth makes him feel inferior, but the prince shows no surprise at his confession. “I grew up beside my father in the palace kitchens and never had time to improve. I apologize for --” 

“Though you ride well enough to take a horse to, say, the edge of the grounds? You are competent, yes?” 

He pauses, looking for an answer in the prince’s expression, searching for that cruel smile and hidden joke Jongin always warned him about -- instead, he notices a mole above Baekhyun’s lip, the speck miniscule compared to the endless, bottomless brown sea that wades in his eyes. 

In moments like this, he fears that, even if he was being toyed with, his foolish mind would keep him from perceiving it in favor of lapping up a royal’s attention, of feeling as though the prince sees him as anything other than a servant. 

“With a well-trained, gentle horse, yes,” the prince is pleased by this, and Chanyeol’s stomach flips with sudden, selfish relief. “Pardon me for asking, your highness, but why do you ask?” 

To Chanyeol’s delight, Baekhyun only hesitates for a long moment before responding in the same unusual voice. 

“I order you to take me there.” 

And it should be impossible, for it's known by them both that there are many risks associated with venturing too far, that Baekhyun had never before been permitted to venture freely past the palace's gates, even with Jongin by his side for so many years.

It really _should _be impossible -- but the prince's meal passes slowly for the royal, uneventfully for the food taster, and when he returns to Chanyeol's side in the early afternoon sunshine, he glows along with it. An audience with the king is much easier to control when there are curious outsiders privy to the entire conversation, when the only reason to object -- Baekhyun's health and the previous threats made against his life -- are a badly hidden secret waiting to unravel.

Chanyeol hasn't ridden a horse in years, but he supposes it never changes. Hands on the reign, back straight, movements controlled and dominant -- with the docile horse under him and an easy path guiding him toward the outskirts of their world, the afternoon should pass simply. 

But it proves excruciating, as Baekhyun's back presses against his chest with all his weight, the taller's skin burning where the prince dares to touch. Baekhyun’s hair smells of fragrant, floral oil, and it tickles Chanyeol’s cheek with each passing second, his own chin touching the crown of the prince’s head with each gallop forward -- his heart thunders in his ears, and he is too frightened to investigate the reason. 

Yixing is not far off from them, riding comfortably with little effort, one hand gripping a bow and eyes focused on the expanding world before them as they descend into an open meadow. 

The wind picks up, urging them on, and Chanyeol feels Baekhyun's content humming vibrate against his chest and settle in his ribs, the prince's tiny melody keeping time with his heartbeat -- beautiful, much like the smile the royal is trying to conceal. 

The danger in this outing doesn't fully dawn on Chanyeol until he looks upon the endless green hills rolling before them and sees the vastness, the emptiness, the freedom that leaves them, for once, truly vulnerable. In this moment, anyone or anything could silence Baekhyun's voice, could steal his warmth from Chanyeol's chest. 

He feels empty at the thought, but then the prince has laid his head carefully into the dip of his collarbone, nestled against him naturally, tenderly, and he is whole for a moment more.

Meadow becomes forest quickly, grass thickening and trees multiplying, the abundance of sunshine partially hidden by thick branches and hanging moss. It is cool and wet here, and Yixing's voice climbs its way through the humidity to make his message clear. 

"Slow down. Follow the stream and dismount when you see it empty into the lake." 

"Yes, sir."

Even as they trot under the veil of foliage, there are still patches of sun that catch Baekhyun's hair like a jewel in the moonlight, moments where his face is illuminated by a soft wonder.

Their horse hops to avoid a rock and Baekhyun lets out a surprised laugh; it rings in Chanyeol's mind louder than anything Baekyun had ever screamed at him, the warmth of Baekhyun’s breath echoing against his neck.

When they dismount, the prince allows Chanyeol’s hands to latch onto his waist and hoist him down with little fuss -- Baekhyun’s hands grasp at his shoulders tightly and their faces are closer than they’ve ever been before. It feels intimate and forbidden, an impoliteness that Chanyeol wishes to repeat again and again if it will make the prince glance up at him shyly, kindly, like he does now. 

The forest strips them of their titles, leaving only two warm bodies traversing under the dark canopy, summer sun and everyday responsibilities long-forgotten. Chanyeol would stay here forever if he could -- he can tell the prince thinks the same.

“The lake is the natural barrier between royalty and commoners,” Yixing is here -- _of course he is,_ Chanyeol reminds himself, unsure of why he was so startled, confused as to why he felt they were alone. “Is it to your liking, your highness?” 

Birds sing to fill the silence Baekhyun leaves. 

“Your highness?” 

Chanyeol tries to garner the prince’s attention now, suddenly concerned. His cheeks are pink and his eyes flit around at a dangerous pace -- Chanyeol fears he’s overwhelmed, that fatigue will catch him too quickly -- after all, this trip was forbidden for a reason. 

“It is much lovelier than mine. I shall have to ask the royal gardeners to make it look as this does.”

He bends, slowly, and picks a few tiny orange flowers from the forest floor, holding them out for Chanyeol to take -- the taller chokes on the surprising joy this brings him, taking the measly bouquet willingly and making sure to hide his budding smile. Yixing’s stare burns into his face. 

The delicate flowers in his hand are beautiful, painted with the sunset and blessed by Baekhyun’s soft gaze -- and holding them only increases his fears of a severe fever blurring the prince’s awareness. A gift from Baekhyun is more than he could ever expect to receive, a gesture he’d never thought plausible in this lifetime. Worried, he studies the rouge of Baekhyun’s entire face, stares at the tongue that peeks out to wet his lips. 

“I would like some of those planted in my personal courtyard. See to it, Chanyeol.” 

Tucking the tiny blossoms into a pocket on the inside of his robe, he decides that Baekhyun and flowers make a lovely pair.

\--

He meets Baekhyun’s guests on the fourth night of their stay. It is his duty, as always, to test the prince’s tea, and there are three women speaking in hushed voices outside of Baekhyun’s sitting room -- they are huddled together in a blur of pastel cloth and golden hair ornaments. The trio smell of expensive flowers and spices, and Chanyeol thinks the shortest one is rather pretty. 

Like most high-ranking women and royalty, they pay a food taster no mind, continuing their conversation with giggles and whispered sentiments as usual. 

Only when they speak of Baekhyun’s handsome features and promising future does he pause his tea tasting to stare at them, dumbfounded by their bold words, by the way they all seem so enchanted with Baekhyun despite his horrid attitude, despite his short temper and constant nagging. They _shouldn’t_ find the prince such an amazing bachelor, as he’s not -- he is not any of those things they whisper about, and it if Chanyeol didn’t know better, he might think the bitter taste in his throat is poison. 

“He has shown interest in you, Yoojung. I believe you could be queen, as long as you continue down the path you currently walk. Don’t let his heart falter.” 

Chanyeol wants to laugh -- the prince’s heart barely beats, much less falters. 

“He is so kind. He speaks nicely of my kingdom and my father -- he compliments our traditions and asks more about them each day.” 

She beams and plays with her pale yellow sleeve, running a tiny finger along the pattern embroidered there, delicate against the dark wood of the doorway. Chanyeol is suddenly aware of how large his hands are, of the calluses that taint them, of the disdain Baekhyun sometimes still addresses him with. He no longer thinks the smallest girl is pretty, or even nice to look at -- she is far too short, and will look like a spoiled child next to the prince. 

“I have written to my father, and I have made it clear that I will accept anything the prince offers. I could ask nothing more of a husband, after all. I must have faith in his heart as well.” 

The maidservant holding the tray of tea is moving away from him with a bowed head -- he’s tasted them all, distracted by the girls and their conversation, absorbed in the harsh annoyance that clouds his mind and makes his chest ache.

“He spoke of planting new flowers yesterday, and I believe he meant for you to hear, Yoojung,” the girl in the lilac dress connects hands with the smallest princess, and Chanyeol watches shamelessly, boiling with a confusing anger. “A declaration of fondness, I would guarantee. It is a way of calling you _his_ flower, is it not?” 

This is unbearably annoying, he decides. 

Baekhyun’s facial expression when he first spotted those flowers, his eyes when he drifted easily into Chanyeol’s outstretched arms and landed face to face with him, was like nothing Chanyeol had ever seen. The forest brought out a side of the prince only he had the privilege of witnessing -- a relaxed, peaceful Baekhyun, one who laughs loudly and shares his warmth, one who picks flowers and speaks nothing of duties. 

But now there is talk of marriage, of possible wives and expanding gardens and Baekhyun being kind to strangers. 

“Can I help you?” 

The third girl, draped in pale pink and painted with red lip coloring, stares at Chanyeol with the question lingering in her eyes, confusion evident. He has been staring like an idiot. He has been caught like a fool.

“I apologize, your highnesses. You are all just so beautiful. I did not mean to stare.” 

Baekhyun’s alleged betrothed laughs, though there’s no humor in it, only high-pitched disbelief. 

“Go stare at servant girls. We are not to be ogled,” the lilac girl speaks up, voice harsh. “We are the prince’s guests, and he cares about our comfort more than he cares for you, I assure you.” 

This is not supposed to happen, not when he was just getting into Baekhyun’s favor, finally. He wishes for the prince to hear this happening, to save him from their offended stares and arrogant smirks -- even if, deep down, he knows Baekhyun would not take his side. 

“Please forgive me, your highness. I will learn from my mistakes. Please, sit with the prince, and I will have more desserts sent to you all immediately. I apologize for the intrusion.” 

“Your prince will hear of this,” Yoojung says, daffodil-colored gown vibrant against the red anger that blooms in her face. 

For the prince’s apparent beloved, Chanyeol cannot find a feature on her face that Baekhyun would appreciate -- he cannot imagine the prince dragging fingers across her cheek or tasting her lips for himself. He cannot imagine Baekhyun loving this face, or this height, or this woman. 

Baekhyun needs patience, like Jongin had told him -- Baekhyun deserves someone who will ease his pain and calm his worries, who will show him how to live in a way that isn’t self-destructive and fueled by anger. Yoojung is not patient enough to love the prince, not in the way he so needs, in the way he so craves. 

A dangerous thought seeps into Chanyeol’s mind, even as he tries to banish it completely. 

\--

In his dreams, things are very different. The ground melts under him and he slips into the murky liquid, swimming in flowers and grass, surrounded by canvases filled with figures -- lithe and crouching, a terrifying sight. In his dreams, the poison seeps through his mouth and into his skin and eyes, blinds him completely; he can still hear Baekhyun’s voice yelling at him, can feel the prince’s nose and lips with his fingertips if he tries hard enough. 

Jongin is fully healed in this muddled mess of color and texture, and the guard rears back on a large horse, arrows held high -- he lets one go, and the thud tells Chanyeol that Jongin has hit his target easily. A crowd cheers, and he only hopes it wasn’t him who was shot. 

Here there are no girls outside of Baekhyun’s sitting room -- only Baekhyun’s lips whispering against his cheek, lips soft as the petals of his tiny orange flowers, telling him secrets and ensuring that his illness has faded completely. They are somewhere in the forest, he knows this much, for Baekhyun’s hair tickles him and so does the grass. Somehow, Baekhyun is his; he feels this instinctively.

In the real world, he wakes up drenched in sweat and shaking from the dose of poison he’d taken earlier that night, and the physician is asleep in the corner of his office, slumped over in exhaustion. The sky is dark blue and shining with stars and a crescent moon -- it is still the middle of the night. 

There is no horse, no forest, and definitely no Baekhyun, so he closes his eyes and sleeps again, letting the lethal chemicals finish weaving their way through his body. He will deal with everything in the morning. 

\--

The palace is still hosting guests, but today they have ventured on a trip to the large city that surrounds the grounds -- the trio of girls and their guards are off to buy whatever their heart’s desire. Baekhyun had lied that he had a very important meeting with his father to avoid explaining why he wasn’t allowed to come along with them, to hide the way his entire body has been aching since the morning.

The prince’s room is very quiet today -- no visitors permitted, he’d yelled that order to Yixing hours ago when he could still bear to hear his own voice -- and the serenity only amplifies the prince’s suffering noises, makes his movements echo in this large room. 

Chanyeol sits in the corner, anxiously watching Baekhyun’s form writhe in bed, whines slipping out involuntarily, hands clasped over his eyes. He hadn’t ventured close enough to see the red around his eyes or the ashy pallor of his skin, but he can envision it clearly. The prince’s health and mood are puzzles he can solve rather quickly now -- he plays with the pieces even when he’s not in the presence of the prince, always fitting them together with hearsay and a need to guess whether he is doing well or not. 

“Would you like a cold cloth for your forehead, your highness?”

Something like a grunt slips past his lips, and Chanyeol rushes out of the room to retrieve the supplies -- he makes understanding eye contact with Yixing as he exits, the guard’s post outside of the prince’s room disturbed for a moment. The green interior of the crown prince’s quarters greets him as always, and he tries his very best to keep from dripping water on the finely polished floors as he jogs his way back to Baekhyun’s bed. 

“Here,” he drapes it across Baekhyun’s forehead, hesitating for a moment before swiping the baby hairs from the cloth’s path. “Is it okay, your highness?” 

“Back.” 

“Your back hurts, your highness?” 

Baekhyun has the audacity to reach up and remove the cloth from his forehead as if it’s a stray leaf in his hair -- Chanyeol realizes they are closer than he’d thought, his kneeling position on the floor putting his face above Baekhyun’s only slightly. Every feature of the prince is so clear from this angle, and his gut twists at the thought of staying like this, uncomfortably close for far too long. 

“My back aches; soothe it. It is an order.” 

The jut of the prince’s lip and the slope of his nose are buried in a pillow the next moment, gone from Chanyeol’s examining eyes. He has only Baekhyun’s broad back to look at now, and while there is less to process on this side of the prince, Chanyeol has to admit that he’s still fascinated with his pointed shoulder blades, with the obvious outline of thin waist under his thin sleeping clothes. 

“I will remind you that I still have not addressed you harassing my guests,” Baekhyun is forced to stop speaking mid-sentence, and Chanyeol hates the way his breathing visibly stutters, struggle completely visible with the rising and falling of his back. “And I will continue not to address it. Now help me.” 

He cannot help the way his pulse speeds at the thought of the prince taking his side after all, of his uninterested face disregarding everything Yoojung had told him that day. It is a small victory for him; it feels as though Baekhyun has gently placed a bouquet of flowers in his hands, beautiful as the forest made him out to be. 

The prince’s vulnerability in this moment is another victory entirely, as Chanyeol has never been invited to touch him like this, has never ventured so close to the prince’s bed before. It feels like they are together on the horse once again, galloping toward the woods, bodies pressed together in a way he hadn’t realized possible; it almost feels like Baekhyun wants to lean into him like he had that day, and he obliges. 

“Yes, your highness.” 

Baekhyun’s back is warm and feverish, and Chanyeol likes the way it feels under his hands, firm and textured with his ridges of his spine down the middle, rounding out softly with the spread of the prince’s hips and waist. 

Chanyeol lets his hand fall and rise gently, softly, hoping that it will lull him into some sort of sleep -- it is clear that he needs rest more than anything at the moment. Baekhyun’s entire body twitches involuntarily, voice drowned out by the pillow concealing his face, and Chanyeol removes his hands as though they are on fire.

“You did not harm me,” he moves his head to the side, exposing one side of his face to Chanyeol. “I will not break from your hands on my back. I am not as feeble as you think.” 

There are many things he wants to say in return. _I fear being the source of your pain. You took my side, and I wish I could tell you why I was staring at your guests, of the way my heart ached with their every word. I find you interesting whether you are yelling or sleeping, whether your eyes look at me curiously or with hate. You captivate me, and I am scared._

Instead, he places his hands on the prince’s back once again and presses fingertips into the muscle gently, watching Baekhyun’s parted lips and closed eyes intently, studying his face for approval. 

“I apologize for what happened with your guests, your highness. I do not wish to offend them.”

The prince chuckles at this, and Chanyeol tries to find the humor in it too, tries to understand why he smiles so. He wants to understand Baekhyun’s view on life so badly, but Baekhyun’s thoughts and reasonings are not his to grasp.

“Princess Yoojung and her ladies are not suitable for you, so do not stare and think and hope. It will only get you punished.”

He finds himself wanting to prod into the prince’s tense shoulders harder than necessary, if only to make Baekhyun’s eyes open and meet his with shock, if only to make sure this moment is actually happening. There’s a flash of anger in his chest, burning and violent, heat dissolving when waves of grief lap at the flaming shore of his heart. 

This time, he doesn’t need to try very hard to understand -- it is clear to Chanyeol what he is trying to say: _they are only suitable for a prince, for someone like me._

“I understand, your highness. I would never wish to anger someone you care for.”

The room dips into silence, warm with summer air and tense with prolonged skin contact. Chanyeol has never looked at the prince like this, never felt him so clearly under his fingertips, never longed to remain beside him as he does now. He watches his own hands palm across the prince’s back, marvels as the span of his fingers cover the space easily, wholly, and thinks of Yoojung’s small hands trying to do the same, tries to imagine Yoojung’s voice melting with Baekhyun’s as they fall asleep wrapped in each other -- it is _wrong_. 

There is something in the way they would exist together that causes Chanyeol’s insides to twist.

“She spoke of a fondness between us? Or the servants are gossiping amongst themselves?” 

Chanyeol digs his knuckles into the small of the prince’s back for only a moment, earning a surprised gasp from him -- Baekhyun’s confused face evaporates and is replaced with both relief and pain, with an emotion that makes Chanyeol lean further into his touches. He wants to be closer, if possible, wants to cease this conversation and block the route it’s headed to. He wants too much.

“It seemed she had hopes for a marriage proposal, your highness.”

The prince’s breathing stops altogether -- Chanyeol can feel the sudden stillness against his hands, and so he stops moving too, waiting for Baekhyun’s shoulder blades to rise and fall once again, waiting for this excruciating second to pass. It drags on achingly, painful as the sudden twitch of the prince’s body. 

“I did not mean to offend you, your highness, I know little of your personal relationships, and I would not want to presume anything of her --”

He is silenced by the prince rolling to face him once again. His hands settle awkwardly on the fine blankets that surround his highness -- they act as the only barrier between Chanyeol and Baekhyun, pitiful and small against two bodies, weak as the wind crawling in through the window. 

“I suppose she would have hopes. It will probably be so, after all. The kingdom needs an heir, and I need a wife. She is a rather good solution.” 

They are too close once again, but there are no moves made to correct this proximity, and Chanyeol is oddly willing to stay put. He studies Baekhyun intently from this position, absentmindedly checking for red cheeks or glossed looks, searching for hands that shake with a need for medical attention. He breathes easier when he only sees what has always been: a thin, pink face and pretty hands that tremble only slightly. 

Baekhyun’s face remains rather blank, though Chanyeol can see through him now and read his discomfort easily -- he is agitated, but he cannot decode whether it’s due to bodily pain or their conversation topic.

“A wedding is always a lovely thing, your highness. Would you not be excited?” 

Chanyeol’s voice gives away that he is not thrilled by the idea, certainly, but Baekhyun doesn’t say anything about it, pinched face watching him all the same, calm and wide-eyed.

“I do not care for her particularly. Though, this is not something I should tell you,” the prince seems to weigh his options, seems to break easily under his heavy conscience. His lips barely stop moving, the first moment of hesitance faded completely, and Chanyeol watches on, enraptured. “I do not think there is a woman alive who I could care deeply for. I am never to show my weakness to my wife, and I fear I only have weakness to give.”

The silence lingers for a moment, and the prince chases it away with more hurried confessions, with an urgency and relief that Chanyeol has never witnessed. 

“Even so, she will still be mine -- if my father so intends, if the kingdom desires an heir, she will be my wife. I will have to love her, somehow.” 

There is no joy in this revelation, only a faint acceptance of his duties and inevitable future. For some reason, this breaks a tiny part of Chanyeol, and he feels himself crumble at the thought of his prince caught in a loveless marriage, forced to hold someone he can never be himself around. He fears there is no way to save him from this -- he wants Baekhyun to breathe easily and clearly, to smile in the sunshine like he had that day in the forest. 

It tumbles out before he can catch it, foolish and childish and ridiculous to say in the presence of his nation’s crown prince. 

“Your highness, I can help you escape, if you so wish.” 

Baekhyun moves a long strand of hair from his shoulder and brushes it behind his ear, not responding, not reacting, barely breathing. He is a despondent prince once again, and Chanyeol raises a hand to touch him as easily as he’d done only the minute before, palms firm and cool against the fever that lives in Baekhyun’s skin. 

This movement sparks the room back to life -- they stare at each other as they’ve done many times before, but now there is a secret shared between them, a memory of confessed worries and comforting touches. The prince is back, somehow.

“You are a fool, Chanyeol. This is not something I can run from.” 

“I am sorry, your highness. I should have refrained from saying something so ridiculous. You have many duties, and I know you will complete them to the best of your ability. Forgive me, your highness.” 

Baekhyun’s black hair and eyes make the emerald tone of the room even more vibrant, makes Chanyeol’s vision blur if he focuses on them for too long. The prince is so close now that the pink of his cheeks and his boiling fever has transferred to Chanyeol, leaving his senses foggy anew. 

“You are a fool, and so am I. I can bare myself, my pain and my anger and my happiness, all of it -- I can show it to only you, I fear. And _you_ are a bad choice.” 

He drowns in the words, in the closeness. The prince watches him with gentle eyes, with the same pretty features, with everything Chanyeol could ever ask for. He wants far too much -- maybe Baekhyun wants things, too. 

“I will be that person for you, your highness,” he whispers it, vocal chords not necessary when they are so near, when all that seperates them is a fear of consequence, of what would happen if Baekhyun crossed the line so clearly drawn between them. “I will not be a bad choice.” 

The world spins in proximity to Baekhyun. The harsh gold and green of his chambers, the endless black of his features, the sharp jawline and cutting words -- they have all melted into a field of flowers, into a gentle stream that carries Chanyeol’s logic in its current. He wants to press petal pink lips to his, wants to feel Baekhyun’s hand reach for his; he longs for it more than anything else.

Breaths blur together in this heat, and it seems the prince can take no more. He connects their lips in a tiny kiss, unfamiliar and scared, uncertain and willing to learn. Despite the knowledge of the laws and etiquette they are breaking, of his place in this world, Chanyeol doesn’t mind, for Baekhyun’s touch is more comforting than the safety of following rules.

This sensation is new for both -- welcome, but terrifying -- and Chanyeol’s mind reels with Baekhyun’s soft arm touching his, with the prince’s hair tickling his chin, with the absurdity of it all. He wishes for it to never stop. 

Baekhyun’s lips had always irritated him, sometimes soft and pretty, sometimes chapped and pinched in anger, but always, always, in the corner of his mind. Feeling them move against his own has given him new reasons to think of them, to study them, to watch Baekhyun’s words as they’re spoken. He wonders if he will ever see the prince’s face without thinking of this feeling, of the way their lips drag together in overwhelming warmth. Mostly, he wonders if he will ever see the prince in the same way, or if he will glow with light and kindness even in his worst moments -- for he is surely an angel if he tastes like this, if he can be held so easily. 

Soon they are both gasping, inexperienced and overexcited, and their foreheads bump together in a moment of confusion and bliss. The world has stopped.

The prince refuses to open his eyes, obviously fearful to acknowledge what has happened; Chanyeol cannot help but keep his open, devouring every second of Baekhyun’s closeness, of this unknown desire being fulfilled so completely. 

The prince is shaking with an unknown ailment, and Chanyeol tries to clear his mind of anything besides his heart aching for more and Baekhyun’s knee radiating heat under his hesitant touch. He tries to drown out the world around them -- tries to forget the earlier conversation, the duties and obligations Baekhyun must fill, the world he cannot escape from, the things he should not act on. He tries to ignore the fear of rejection that fills him completely. 

“Your highness --” 

“I will sleep now, Chanyeol,” the prince speaks up suddenly, voice breaking with an emotion Chanyeol is scared to place; he sounds sickly in a way he never has before. “You may leave.” 

“I, your highness, I --” 

“I told you to leave.” 

The prince looks feverish in a foreign way, and Chanyeol is scared to escape this room, to be alone with his own thoughts and the crushing weight of what he’s done. He wishes Baekhyun was on his stomach once again, eyes closed and peaceful, telling secrets and trusting him for a minute longer. 

“It is a command.” 

He follows it despite his better judgement. Legs quaking under him, scared of his own volatile thoughts and splitting heart, Chanyeol knows he wants someone he will never have -- and he refuses to look at what he’s lost as he leaves the room. 

\--

Within hours, it is clear that he is not thought of by Baekhyun in the way he’d misinterpreted, in the way he’d so suddenly hoped. By that evening, he simply tastes the food for poison and is not invited in to eat or talk, his miniscule sunbeam of hope clouded by the worlds between them once again. 

The polished floors and lush decorations are tilted, askew with new emotions that claw from Chanyeol’s chest and fight to his eyes -- there _must_ be someone else who sees the world through these tears too, who notices the wounds that Baekhyun has left him with.

Yixing must wonder what has occured -- he’d been outside when Chanyeol bolted from the prince’s chambers hours ago, and he is most definitely by the prince’s side at dinner now; surely, he senses there has been a shift in the palace today. 

Lost and left with no invitation to join the prince, he panics; Chanyeol lingers in the hallway, walking to and fro anxiously, mind filled with punishments and harsh words that will find him soon enough. He has ruined the crown prince’s lips, has taken their softness for his own without regard to propriety and duty. 

Throughout dinner Baekhyun’s voice assails him constantly, the rigidity and anger in it fully wrapping around his throat and face until all he can do is listen for each word with pained fascination. He is desperately trying to lap up the weak waves of Baekhyun’s presence floating toward him; it is hard, for barely anything can travel across the sea that froths between them.

The prince is screaming. He is angry at something minor and unimportant, Chanyeol knows -- but this knowledge does little to keep him from starting toward the great dining hall’s archway, worry propelling him forward with annoyance in tow. 

From the edge of the doorway, hidden from view, Chanyeol watches it all. 

Baekhyun is pale and trembling as awfully as he had that morning, but now there is a fire in his eyes and actions, his mind and body set alight with a violent rage. Chanyeol fears he knows the source far too well. He cannot get his mind off of the incident either, even if it turns his stomach to a thunderous tempest and leaves him stumbling after more -- even if it seems to only enrage Baekhyun when it had melted Chanyeol so easily.

The prince’s eyes are focused on a maidservant as she bows before him, visibly shaking and crying. Chanyeol wants to close his eyes, wants to stop this image of cruelty and anger from weaseling its way into his mind -- something in him wants to preserve only the nicest sides of Baekhyun, wants to obliterate every harsh trait he’s ever witnessed from the prince. Instead, he keeps them wide open, all too aware of the awful feelings taking hold of him.

“You are not to look at your future king with such contempt,” the momentary silence is shattered along with a cup, shards of the fine china scattering across the floor in an instant. The maidservant whimpers. “You have all allowed yourself to be comfortable with me. And you are wrong for this -- I am above every servant in this palace, and I always will be.” 

These words cut Chanyeol as if they were slivers of the demolished cup, sharp and prickling in the corners of his eyes. The maidservant has not moved, and Chanyeol can think of nothing but comforting her and reprimanding Baekhyun; he wants so badly to have that power. 

But he is below the prince -- he knows far too well that the things they have shared will never be shared again, not in this lifetime, not when Baekhyun will do anything to make himself seem powerful, not when Chanyeol is hopelessly alone in so much of their relationship.

“I will not be your gracious ruler if you do not wish me to be. Look at me correctly, or be dismissed -- it is your decision to make. Banished and ashamed, or respectful to your crown prince?” 

Chanyeol must leave, for he feels sick. Sick at the image of Baekhyun’s punishment, sick at the thought of Baekhyun’s anger with him directed toward others, sick at the sound of the maidservant’s quiet sobs echoing.

Most of all, he is sick at the way he feels only fury toward the prince but never,_ never _hatred, no matter how ardently he tries.

\--

The prince pays him no mind anymore; he has been completely dismissed as his personal servant, the unusual closeness with Baekhyun dissolved within two days. There is no more sitting together at meals, no conversations, no quiet moments of familiarity between them -- no more stealing looks to check on the prince’s health and mood, to keep Chanyeol’s hungry imagination full of mesmerizing eyes and lips.

A boundary had been crossed, and there will never be a way to step back from it. No matter how Baekhyun stumbles away from his own actions, Chanyeol can think only of moving closer and closer. His mind floods with these thoughts, overrun with nagging worry and draining jealousy.

With each sunrise and sunset, the awareness of what is happening around him grows tenfold, no matter how he tries to stay oblivious, no matter how he avoids thinking of Baekhyun when he can. It is hard to act as though he doesn’t notice the royal guests’ prolonged stay, or the way Baekhyun retires earlier and earlier in the evenings, sometimes refusing dinner altogether. It is even harder to act as though he doesn’t feel an odd emptiness now that he’s gone from the prince’s side. 

Instead of wasting away in his own emotions, he fills his days with poison and combat training -- Jongin is almost fully recovered, and he is very willing to spar with _anyone_ now he’s physically able to. Chanyeol’s arms ache from holding the sword properly for hours each afternoon, and his mind feels permanently foggy from the awful vials he sips after dusk, but life is easier when he is hazy and tired, when Baekhyun’s clear rejection doesn’t follow him through the corridors of the palace relentlessly. 

Jongin is worried, he knows, for the guard has started going easy on him during sparring matches, kind brown eyes searching the food taster’s face for something more than simple fatigue. Sometimes Chanyeol doesn’t hide it well enough, and Jongin opens his mouth to ask the question that fills the corners of the room, that rings through both their minds like a song: _what happened? _Chanyeol responds with a stronger stance and (still rather weak) jabs toward the guard -- it sparks playfulness in the air and, for a minute longer, Chanyeol thinks things will be okay. 

Exhausting himself is not ideal, but it helps him to think very little of Baekhyun’s renewed anger, of the distance growing between them with each passing minute, of the way he misses their little bit of nothing with all his heart. 

A week passes like this. Chanyeol watches the kitchens fill up with a feast’s worth of delicacies, notices embroiderers and musicians flocking to the palace, listens to the excited whispers of what the upcoming event could be -- he tries to convince himself it’s anything but what he fears most. 

\--

The celebration is elaborately planned and decorated, so ornate and extravagant that Chanyeol almost loses his way in this usually-familiar palace, getting turned around when food and dancers whisk past him with strong scents, losing focus when percussion booms in the distance and women giggle in his ears.

Each surface is shimmering and there are voices all around, dizzyingly loud music drifting across the courtyard -- strings are plucked and woodwinds sing as hundreds of guests’ voices join in this great symphony. Racarous and overwhelming, drowned in gold and silver and jade, painted in the brightest, most expensive hues, this palace has been whisked away from its earthly presence, hosted on the edge of the moon, dazzling on the borderline of everyone’s imagination. 

The crown prince is to be wed today. 

Chanyeol will not be present for the ceremony, as he is needed most in the kitchens -- and he is grateful for it. 

Surely Baekhyun will be a new type of beautiful today, done up completely in intricately designed robes, hair smooth and face relaxed. For this occasion, Baekhyun will be truly happy. This marriage will lead to a prosperous year, to a proud father, to a sense of relief for the entire palace. The prince will be overjoyed at the opportunity to gain an heir and further cement himself as a viable future ruler. Undoubtedly, he will be happy to hold such a lovely woman tonight, to add someone new and beautiful to his collection of fine things. He will prosper with the thought of his princely duties being completed; he will soar at the entire nation honoring him, each citizen unknowing of his sickness or his temper (and definitely not the fondness his servant holds for him.) 

Today Baekhyun will become the prince he has always wanted to be. 

And Chanyeol cannot take anything away from this experience -- he is not permitted to feel as he does now, and he will never express what he’d first felt, not until it’s buried far enough to have no more meaning to his fragile heart. Today, he will erase the way their lips felt pressed together in that secret moment of intimacy, will forget the way earning Baekhyun’s trust felt like witnessing a flower blooming before his eyes. 

“Help carry dishes out,” one of the cooks is looking directly at him, head nodding toward the struggling maids behind him. Chanyeol realizes how useless he’s been, tangled in his own emotions and oblivious to the work he’s neglected. “After, you must test the rice wine. The rituals are set to begin before long, and I am not eager to disappoint the royal family on a day like this.” 

Upsetting the king is to be most carefully avoided. Though Chanyeol almost wishes to upset Baekhyun and hear his name fall from the prince’s lips once again, even if it is said in exasperation, even if there seems to be a punishment waiting for him when he responds -- it would still be better than the sudden distance stretched between them. He longs for an interaction, for recognition, most days -- but not today. Today is much too fragile. 

“Are you listening?” 

Chanyeol’s duties consist of testing for poison, assisting in the kitchen, and letting the prince make history without allowing his emotions to interfere. This he will do well, even as his chest tightens with apprehension and sadness.

“I apologize, sir. I will go now.” 

Chanyeol follows orders and detests all he witnesses in the process of completing them -- countless faces filled with joy and wonder, all excited for a monumental event that Chanyeol dreads wholeheartedly, all eager to see history being made in front of them. Each lord and lady whispers of the prosperity that a late summer wedding will bring, delighted that it will calm the blistering heat and flooding that has plagued them so. Chanyeol knows they are right, but he wants to believe _any_ marriage to the crown prince could achieve it, that his own hand in Baekhyun’s could protect their land just as much.

“I have heard much of her beauty. She’s a flower, they say,” the bowl in his hand falls to the table with a little too much speed as the impact of those words hits him harshly. The official who speaks has not recognized that anything is amiss. “Petite, delicate, and very polite. Fit to be a queen and fit to bear a son. Matches well with our prince.” 

He feels sick; he blames it on the heat and the crowds, on the incessant background chattering. His own height and wide hands, his poor background and lack of trained etiquette, they all weigh on his shoulders, heavy and painful. There’s a horrible thought that winds through the forest of his thoughts, a branch that pokes his side until he thinks he must be bleeding: _if my head aches this much, won’t Baekhyun’s feel it too?_

He forgets it as quickly as he can, knowing too well the way Baekhyun’s health and happiness will haunt him if he allows it. Bowing to the older couple at the table in front of him, he retreats back to the kitchen, to the chaos that will keep him mildly unaware of what exactly he’s losing. 

The day is long, and Chanyeol eats a bite of every dish before it is sent out, and he is thankful that it smells and feels like it should. The other food tasters rave about the exquisite food they are allowed portions of, giggling in joy at the chance to taste the crown prince’s wedding feast, and Chanyeol tries hard to join in their happiness, too. 

Even as one part of his world begins to crumble into the sea, their collective safety holds him from the angry waves, lets him breathe easily as the afternoon sun settles above them all. 

He hears the cheers of a pleased crowd as the music silences, and then there is nothing -- the voices cannot be heard from the kitchen, and Chanyeol does not wish to try and catch a glimpse like the rest of the excited staff. They huddle by the door and lift the smaller girls onto their shoulders, a jumble of colorful, stained clothes and worn hands. Summer birds sing, and their forms shake in the warm wind, a forest of painted willow trees that dance in front of Chanyeol’s blurred eyes. He blinks the tears away. 

It drags on for minutes, maybe hours, and then there is raucous noise once again, a singing, dancing, talking crowd of elated citizens joining in symphony once again. There is a rush to distribute food and discuss everything they’d seen, all shaking hands and big smiles -- Chanyeol is somewhat thankful for all the wine he’s tested today, for it cuts through some of the twisting in his stomach. 

The air cools as night lurks nearer and nearer -- Chanyeol is not feeling okay anymore, and he blames it on the gloomy purple of the sky, on the laughing group of young masters he collects dishes from. 

“After the meal, they left immediately. And with a bride that beautiful, I would do the same.” 

The group laughs heartily at the young man’s sentiments, and Chanyeol hates the mental image of Baekhyun running off to consummate his marriage with the sun still up, with hundreds of guests waiting for their return as the party continues into the night. It is what he must do, he knows, but it feels deplorable. He is nauseous.

“He does not know how fortunate he is to have such a wife. I only hope he doesn’t break her too quickly -- it would be hard to keep myself from trying, after all.” 

It’s too much. _Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting,_ Chanyeol thinks, mind spinning,_ they are disgusting to be talking like that, to speak of Baekhyun’s marriage and of how he might handle his wife. _

_It is all utterly disgusting_, he thinks, though an ugly, jealous part of him knows it is because he has thought the same of Baekhyun, has imagined things that he never should have. 

_Disgusting_. He can no longer tell if he thinks it toward the men or himself, and it only worsens the ache in his stomach. 

Minutes later, as he vomits next to the kitchen’s back entrance, he assures a passing servant that he has eaten far too much tonight, ignoring the real reason for his nausea. She believes him and offers a piece of scrap cloth to wipe his mouth, eyes far too kind for this situation. 

Chanyeol wonders if she thinks he is handsome, if she would marry him if he proposed it, if it would make Baekhyun feel as he does right now. He knows the negatory answer far too well -- and yet he thinks of nothing but Baekhyun’s jealous, angry hands breaking him, just as the man had joked. 

He thinks of many things breaking -- the last fading inches of the sun across the horizon, the plate that falls from the sink in the kitchen, the expectations that hold his foolish mind together.

Time passes in a blur for the better part of an hour, and nothing makes sense, each minute slow as the sun’s surrender and sudden as the moon’s ascent. Wisteria skies give way to the darkness of the night, and Chanyeol enjoys the stars that look down at him, keeps their company for as long as he’s able. Still, there is never a lack of food to be tasted or wine to be sipped, and Chanyeol must head back to the kitchen before long, suffocated and exhausted from the day behind him.

It’s when he hears excited voices tell of the crown prince Baekhyun and his royal consort Yoojung’s reentry to the ceremony, of their red faces and the guests’ pleased jeering, does Chanyeol realize the wine he tests has a bitter bite to it. It coats his throat uncomfortably, and he knows suddenly that this cannot be served to any guest, much less his crown prince. 

Time slows even further, and his vision blurs -- the wine hits the floor, shattering, and Chanyeol spits out what he can, gasping for air. 

“It’s poisoned.” 

Hands reach for him instantly, a crowd of kitchen workers supporting him as his vision fades as black as the sky; he hopes there will be stars behind his eyelids, too. 

\--

The world is cold -- an unnatural winter has swept into the palace suddenly, viciously, and Chanyeol cannot see past the snow flurrying around him. There is a celebration going on, he knows, and he knows that it has something to do with the crown prince, but everything else is hazy. The lack of guests, of Baekhyun, makes him squint against the white canvas draped over the horizon. 

There should be familiar voices and songs, a burning fire that keeps them all warm, all safe. Safety, he realizes, is a priority -- he wonders if Baekhyun is dressed well against the cold, or if his cheeks are a blotchy red, if his hands shake with the wind. He wonders if the weather has hit Jongin with a fever, if the wound in his abdomen refuses to heal because of it. He wonders if the flowers on his father’s grave have withered, if they crunch under footsteps like twigs, a useless memorial forgotten in the depth of the snow. He wonders if there is a reason he can’t feel his hands or his own face, other than frostbite -- he wonders if he has these features anymore, or if the sudden horrible taste in his throat has stolen their place entirely.

There is panic in his mind now, and the snowflakes appear red as they grow closer toward him; one hits his cheek and stays there, surprisingly warm. Only when he wipes it away from the bridge of his nose does he recognize the metallic smell dripping on him, covering him, devouring him. There is blood all over him, as warm and thick as the blood that had painted the dirt in Baekhyun’s courtyard, fresh as the wounds that tear away at his heart. Baekhyun’s courtyard, Baekhyun’s sickness, Baekhyun’s chambers, Baekhyun’s lips -- it all has meaning again, and suddenly he wants to leave this place more than anything.

The world is no longer white and cold, now scarlet with blood and simmering with heat. Chanyeol screams the first names that come to mind, his voice a hollow nothing against the thick air of summer and useless against the red that drips into his mouth. He is drowning, set adrift into a sea of fear and confusion, and there is a hand holding his. Warm -- warmer than the humid air, than the blood that coats his face, the hand shares its steady pulse with his fingertips. And he knows it is Baekhyun’s, somehow. 

Hope is an addictive and dangerous thing. When he opens his eyes and breathes deep against the normal air, against the rising sun and hushed voices surrounding him, he realizes he was mistaken in every way possible. It is as hot as always, but there is no blood drowning him, only staining his hands, chest, and the floor, maybe. He is not alone in this agony; the room holds two or three people, and it nearly overwhelms him. It’s true there is a hand holding his, but it is certainly not the prince, as it is calloused and wide, the mark of a commoner boy. 

“Can you speak? Are you awake?” 

It is the royal physician, he knows. The urge to nod is strong, but he doesn’t know if he can muster it -- breathing too deeply aches in his lungs, and the pale yellow light of the room makes his head spin. He blinks thrice instead.

“You are lucky for the trained tolerance,” in the silence of the room, the early morning birds sing louder than ever. “You have saved many lives, including your own. Rest now, Chanyeol.” 

He does as he’s told, just as he always has. He follows orders easily by nature, and sleep sounds far more appealing than fighting with the bright lights of the morning, than fully understanding the reality he faces.

When consciousness comes again, he _feels_ more than ever -- more pain, more fear, more awareness. He knows what he has done, what the acrid taste in his mouth is, and, most of all, he knows what is missing from his view. 

“Oh? Can you hear me?” Jongin’s voice is rather comforting to a sick man’s ears, and he tries to smile outwardly to match his emotions. He fears it looks rather pained and fake. “You’ve slept most of the day away.” 

There are so many things he wants to ask, but all he can do is look at Jongin pleadingly, merely hoping that the guard will understand what he wants to know. 

“It is almost dinnertime,” a pause of silence fills the room, and Jongin breathes deeply; it’s calming. “The physician and kitchen staff have been in and out visiting you. Everyone is worried.” 

There is a distinct tone change in Jongin’s voice when he speaks of everyone -- it goes higher, a nervous sort of sound, and Chanyeol can tell that not _everyone_ is truly worried. Perhaps Baekhyun is rejoicing, for his life was saved and the thorn in his side has been effectively removed, or maybe the king is grateful such a celebration wasn’t ruined, happy to sacrifice a commoner’s life for the happiness of his guests. 

“No one else has been harmed, except you, of course. And you will heal soon, but you need to eat,” Jongin busies himself with finding a bowl from the table behind him -- it’s a porridge, bland and sad, but rather healthy. It looks pitiful, even in such a beautifully painted bowl, even when Jongin holds it toward him as though it’s a treasure. “I will tell you everything when you are able to ask. Just focus on swallowing water and porridge.” 

He must’ve looked indignant at the thought of _not_ speaking, if Jongin’s smile and gentle pat on his elbow tells him anything. 

“You coughed up quite a lot of blood. Your throat will protest any sort of talking, trust me on it.” 

There is no arguing with his experienced words, so Chanyeol lets the guard spoon porridge into his mouth, swallowing painfully around the searing warmth. Each spoonful is as flavorless as the last, though there is a texture to it he’s never before experienced -- he wonders if Jongin’s kind heart has requested the finest rice for his meals, or if there is someone higher up taking care of him. Even if it hurts his heart to keep hoping, he lets himself toy with the idea for a moment, and he fools his rational self almost completely in the few minutes it takes to eat. 

He finishes it slowly, far too many questions lingering in his mind to rest comfortably. But there is no fighting his lingering exhaustion and Jongin’s stern order to rest more, so he falls back into an unsatisfying sleep, hoping for his voice to find him once again when he rises. 

\-- 

“The crown prince is safe? The celebration was not ruined?” 

“He was informed of the danger minutes after it occurred, and he drank no more wine that night,” Jongin says, voice steady and calming, even as the thunderstorm outside roars. “No one else was told. Nobody was harmed.” 

Chanyeol can sit up now, and his voice is almost normal, though the physician had jokingly told him earlier in the day that he sounded as though he had tried to eat a few rocks. He sips on the soup in his spoon, grimacing at the slight pain of its heat traveling down his throat. 

“The guests have left the palace? It is only Baek -- the royal family?” Jongin doesn’t correct his informality, and Chanyeol is grateful. The slip up is a scary one to make, though he cannot help it -- in his mind, he calls the prince however he pleases. “Has the criminal been caught? Have they been killed? Has Yixing been even more careful?” 

“Few guests linger. The crown prince and his royal consort stay in his pavilion mostly, and Yixing watches over them constantly. I will join him in the coming days, as I am almost completely healed. And we do not know who attempted to poison them. We are looking.” 

It is not enough news to tide him over, and none of it makes him feel particularly happy, but he cannot do much from his current bedridden position. 

“And the prince,” there is a question he fears vocalizing, and when Chanyeol looks directly at Jongin for the first time during his visit, he sees his wonderings reflected in those eyes. Jongin _knows_. “He is well? Healthy? Happy being married? 

Jongin falls silent -- the same quiet he’d adopted when Chanyeol questioned Baekhyun’s illness, when Chanyeol thought patience and friendship was enough to overcome the foolish way his heart longs for the prince’s attention. Somehow, it makes sense -- do not ask because we both fear the answer. 

They talk no more, and the silence in the room serves as an uncomfortable alternative to spoken overthinking, to Jongin realizing the nature of Chanyeol’s insistent curiosity. Thunder claps loudly, suddenly, and it startles the guard’s memory awake once again -- his hands are suddenly grabbing for a familiar violet cloth. 

“I gave these --” 

“I know,” Jongin sets the purple bundle gently on his lap and gives Chanyeol’s shoulder a squeeze as he stands. “I must go train; I start as a guard again tomorrow. Rest well.” 

Jongin is gone within a beat, and it is only Chanyeol, the soft orange glow of his candles, the thrumming rain against the side of the wall, and an unraveling violet cloth. It holds thin books that tell of conquests and adventures, that smell of salty sea air and muddy forest floor -- they are a piece of the world he longs for, and they sit in his lap once again, as if he’d never given them to his crown prince. They were in Baekhyun’s possession until now, and Chanyeol lets his hand rest on the cover of one, staring at the newly dog-eared pages, at the crinkles in the corner of their covers, at the evidence of Baekhyun’s thin fingers flipping through his silly books. 

He thinks of the time he’d offered to help the prince escape the palace, of the way Baekhyun had snapped back so quickly as if he was caught thinking the same. Chanyeol wonders if this is a message, or if his heart is as patient and foolish as ever. 

\-- 

When Chanyeol walks to the kitchen on steady legs once again two days later, he finds that he is no longer a food taster -- he has been reassigned as a palace cook. Joy comes first -- he will no longer have to fear for his life, he knows -- but anger follows quickly. While it’s an obvious step up in the kitchens, he cannot conceal the immediate thoughts that swarm his mind: this will only hurt others. 

“I am the most qualified person for the position. I have just _survived_ being poisoned. There is no one in these palace walls, save the physician, who has this knowledge -- you cannot send a random boy to die in that position. Not when I am here.“ 

Suddenly Chanyeol doesn’t want Baekhyun to look at him fondly, to care about his safety, not if it puts everyone else at a greater risk, if it gives him a better job and dooms someone else. He does not want Baekhyun’s kindness if it hurts others.

And so he walks to the largest library in the palace, knowing very well that, if he is feeling well enough, the crown prince will be resting in here. The wind is warm as it propels him forward, and it pushes the library doors open further -- he enters with the scent of summer flowers behind him, with a fear and anger that leaves his fingers trembling.

It is not hard to find him, as Chanyeol has sat here with him before, has listened to his breathing and pages flipping, has stolen looks at Baekhyun’s focused expression, has relished in the warmth of the room and the prince’s company.

“Excuse me, your highness, I would like a moment to speak with you.” 

Baekhyun looks up, face contorted as though he’s been scalded. Whether the prince is annoyed at the intrusion, angry with the frankness of his request, or furious that their avoidance had been broken in such a way -- he cannot be sure. 

All that Chanyeol knows is that it has been far too long, for he chases after each detail of the prince he can view -- the jut of his chin, the sharp line of his eyebrows as they furrow, the thin lips that part in shock. His prince looks no different than usual, and still, there is something fundamentally changed, the knowledge of their avoidance, of his marriage, of the tiny acts of kindness, of the large void at Chanyeol’s bedside these past days -- it burns each pretty feature further into Chanyeol’s mind. He wonders if he will ever forget how he looks now, confused and glimmering in the library. 

“Jongin, you may --” the prince attempts to dismiss his guard, stilling when he realizes the familiar man has already snuck away at Chanyeol’s entrance. They are alone for the first time in what feels like weeks, and the relief that pools in Chanyeol’s stomach is somewhat addicting. He doesn’t want to crave Baekhyun’s attention and, yet, he’s so pleased to know that there is no way for the prince to ignore him now -- even as this same knowledge fills him with uncertainty.

“Your highness,” he cannot meet his eyes, not when he’s so sure of the way they’re devouring his features, of the sharpness they hold right now. “I have come to ask to be reinstated as the royal family’s food taster. I am the best qualified for the position, and you are putting others and yourself in danger if I am to suddenly leave.” 

Baekhyun scoffs childishly. For a fleeting moment, it feels like they are kids again, worlds apart in a large palace, only vaguely knowing of each other’s existence -- Chanyeol is jealous of his wealth and life of relaxation, oblivious to the truth of his whining nature, and Baekhyun looks at him with eyes too dark to understand. 

Just the same as when they were younger, Baekhyun is smaller than him, even when he stands from his sitting position and chances a few steps forward, even when Chanyeol stumbles backward from the advancements unconsciously. He wants Baekhyun wholeheartedly, he knows this, and he still scrambles away at the thought of the prince’s undivided attention. 

They are older now, and yet there is still too much between them -- Chanyeol dares not think about crossing the steps that separate them. He wants to keep their last shred of connection intact, wants to hold onto the way Baekhyun stands across from him now, even if it means not acting on his most compelling thoughts.

“You have come to plead for a demotion? You forsake the gift I have given you, the freedom I have granted?” his words are cruel, but there is no malice to them -- he is only confused. It hurts a little more, somehow. “You have escaped disasters and kept your life after each. You should not try and repeat them.” 

The disasters of Chanyeol are, undoubtedly, the dagger Baekhyun pressed to his neck, the lips Baekhyun dragged across his own, and the poison that held him captive for the better part of a week. Escape is ideal for all, though Chanyeol knows himself too well to accept it, to imagine that simply ignoring his mind and heart and body will be his best solution. 

“There is someone trying to kill you, your highness -- they’ve hurt your guard, and they’ve poisoned your _wedding_ wine -- I have been training in poison recognition and immunity, and I will be able to keep the royal family safe. I am the best choice, your highness. You have more to protect now, after all, and I will help you.” 

The prince moves forward at those words, and Chanyeol is forced to look into his eyes, forced to confront the harsh expression he bears. 

“There has been someone trying to kill me since my mother fell pregnant. This is nothing I have not experienced before, and I know all too well that I have _much_ to lose. Regressing in your career because of your moral obligations goes against all I have done to protect what I must.”

His words burn as they reach Chanyeol, raw and stinging against his skin, and he fears that these angry embers will venture too close to the shelves of books around them, will set them alight in something they cannot take back. He was the one to mention the wedding and his family first, yet it scalds him all the same to hear Baekhyun confirm that he has more to protect than himself, that he envisions a future where he must look out for his wife as well as his country. 

It squashes the foolish hope in his heart, silences the selfish whisper that soothed him to sleep the night before: _he will run away with you -- he will abandon it all for you. _

He stays silent. There is a tremor in Baekhyun’s hand as it rises, and soon Chanyeol is staring down a pointed finger, watching the prince stare at him with a familiar sadness. 

“Are you not angry? That poison was for me, and you drank it instead. Does it make you livid, knowing you must die for someone like me?” Baekhyun is trying to provoke him, clearly, and Chanyeol watches his lips tremble as he continues. He wishes there was a way to move closer, to feel for a fever on the prince’s forehead, to ask him what he was trying to convey when he sent all those books back. “You are not furious that my life is above yours?” 

It is now he realizes Baekhyun _wants_ him to be angry. He wants him to despise the thought of aching in someone else’s place, yearns for him to take back all he’s ever felt. He wants Chanyeol to lose his temper and scream at him. He wants to hear that he should’ve never gotten married, that there is something between them, that there is no point in dying for a man who will never be able to return anything. 

“It is my duty, your highness,” he whispers it because he knows the prince is close enough to hear it well enough. “I am loyal to the crown, to you.”

They are inches apart, and Chanyeol feels farther than ever. He does not want to be angry, only close, only loved. He wants Baekhyun’s honesty and trust, wants to feel as though he was truly made for someone on this planet. He wants it to be his crown prince.

“It should not be your duty. I detest it. It is foolish and awful and you, you --” Baekhyun is yelling now, just as he always has, strained and nasally, on the verge of breaking, like so many other things in this palace. “_You_ are foolish and awful! I cannot stand you. I cannot stand that you come here to beg me -- that you ask for your own life’s endangerment, that you think you are being noble and brave by going against my orders.” 

Baekhyun’s finger has fallen from the air, but it does not matter -- he is much closer, face dangerously near Chanyeol’s, red with anger and lack of air. He looks as though he may cry, as though he may pull his dagger out once again and punish Chanyeol himself. It is terrifying to watch, and Chanyeol hopes that he will breathe soon, that he will not risk fainting over such a stupid thing as this. 

“It _is_ my duty, your highness. It is also my selfishness. I am here because I want things in a way that I cannot speak of easily,” the prince’s cheeks fade back to pink, and Chanyeol wants to press fingers against them, longs to run the same fingertips over his lips. “I am loyal, but I hope for the royal family’s safety for selfish reasons almost entirely.” 

“And what are your selfish reasons? Why do you long to put yourself in danger, and why do you go against my better judgement? Why do you treat me as though I am anything but a crown prince when it matters most? Why do you refuse to weep or scream or hurt me, even when I am tormenting you and using you and --” he stops to breathe, a shaky familiarity in his tone that makes Chanyeol’s chest tight, makes his head feel light and his hands numb. “Why have you made me partial to you? Tell me, Chanyeol.” 

The breeze drifts through an open window and a page turns quietly in its path, the book itself long forgotten on the low table, and there is a moment of peace in this chaos-strewn room. Chanyeol wishes for that same serenity, for a crown prince who holds him close and whispers secrets, for a Baekhyun who will not judge him for what he must say now. 

“I will tell you my reasons, if you insist, your highness.” 

“I am not insisting. I am not commanding. I simply want you to tell me,” Baekhyun’s words are delicate and well-chosen, and Chanyeol feels as though he could cry. “Knowing is my selfishness.”

Long ago, when Chanyeol’s father was alive, he’d been able to see a music performance in the palace. It held him in a trance, for each note hit him with such delicate force as to lull him into a different state of mind entirely. Baekhyun’s eyes have the same effect on him, he realizes now. The way they dart across his face, the way they show his nervousness under their hardened glaze, the way they ask questions he has always wanted to answer.

“Your faults do not scare me. I have seen them all, have felt their consequences, and all I can say is that I wish to be by your side while you overcome them,” each word is said slowly, deliberately, and Chanyeol soars. “I will protect you as best I can. I will listen to you, I will be patient, and I will hold your fears along with my own.” 

For years he hummed this tune in the back of his mind, and for weeks his heart had strummed along with it -- now he sings it loudly, and it feels freer than he’d ever expected. Baekhyun’s eyes stay on him, and Chanyeol sees him as a sickly child he’d always envied, as an angry teen with the prettiest features Chanyeol had ever laid eyes upon, as a young man with myriad burdens on his shoulders -- as a prince who is inches away, barely breathing, the sweetest look on his face. 

“You --” 

“There is much more to say, but, mostly, I am tired of not loving you openly, ardently, wholeheartedly.” 

The prince’s lips feel different when they press to his this time, and maybe it is because they are standing, or maybe it is because Chanyeol has moved forward first. Maybe it is simply because everything is sweeter after he has finally said what has always been so obvious. All he knows is that Baekhyun is all warmth, soft hair and tender hands as they shuffle together in a moment of surprising peace. 

The world is chaos and fire, and so is Baekhyun’s temper, but this moment is cool and calm as the lake on the edge of the palace grounds. This moment is enough.

\--

Time moves quickly in the palace. Before long, the weather is cooling down, and the darkening skies and dying flowers welcome in a royal announcement that hurts Chanyeol more than most. 

“You will have an heir,” he says it as though it is a fact because it _is_, even if he hates every syllable that he utters, even if he doesn’t want it to be. “In the spring, you will be a father.” 

Baekhyun’s back stills, an indication that his breathing is stopped for a moment, and Chanyeol watches it attentively from his side of the bed. It is only early morning, and the faint colors of dawn cast a shadow across Baekhyun’s skin that mock him with their easy beauty. 

“I am sorry. It is what I must do. You know well what my duties are, and what I must do, even if --” 

“I know. It is for the best.”

And it is. Chanyeol does not want an argument or a lecture, not today, because it is cold outside and Baekhyun is warm. He wants to hold the smaller close and forget the hurt that coils in his stomach at the thought of the prince and his wife’s forced interactions -- maybe he will bury his own anguish under soft touches and reassuring words from the prince. 

“It is good to have an heir,” he moves closer, breathing on Baekhyun’s neck purposefully in order to make him turn around “But it is better to have me.” 

The prince smiles at the words, as tender and sleepy as he ever allows himself to be, and Chanyeol drops his head to the crook of his shoulder, cold nose buried against velvet skin. He knows Baekhyun’s hands well now, and he likes the familiarity that comes with their gentle touch on his cheek. 

“Are you feeling well?” he whispers it, worry seeping into the air, drowning out the birds that stir awake now to sing. “It will get colder.”

Baekhyun kisses him instead of answering, and Chanyeol will have to accept that as an answer, even if it truly does bother him more than he lets on -- it irks him even more than the heir to the throne, even more than the knowing looks he receives from the queen, even more than the way he misses the prince at the most inconvenient times.

“I am as well as I can be,” he assures between kisses, and Chanyeol wishes for it to be true, for the strength of his touch to heal everything that Baekhyun complains of. “I will be better when you hold me, I think.” 

And so he does, letting their bodies melt together in the growing sunlight. 

The crown prince’s quarters are the only place that feels like home anymore, and Chanyeol doesn’t mind. He favors Baekhyun’s company in the worst and best times, preferring to read and talk and kiss until the hours grow small and Baekhyun grows tired. 

In this room, the universe belongs to them, even if it is a scary one to own, even if there is a knowledge that everything could break in an instant. Baekhyun’s sickness could overpower him, or Chanyeol’s poison tasting could be his last -- their world is fragile, but they will do more than enough to hold it together.

In moments like these, it feels as though the entire world is theirs to have as long as they want it. And as Baekhyun falls back to sleep in his arms, Chanyeol hopes he can have this forever. 

\--

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are we feeling? Any and all comments are appreciated uwu!! Thanks for taking the time to read all 22k (?) of this lol.... it wasn't supposed to be this long.... i promise.....
> 
> (i love you all by the way)
> 
> aff: baekyall  
twitter: baekyalls  
other: curiouscat.me/baekyall


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